


Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

by deanlicious



Series: An exploration of Hugh and Mudah [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 20:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 55,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18301262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deanlicious/pseuds/deanlicious
Summary: Mad Men AU for mine and G's original characters - these are roleplay posts, hence the line breaks and why things may seem a little disjointed to read.





	1. Chapter 1

He's fallen asleep in his office again. It doesn't take much these days, and it really is his own fault for having such a comfortable sofa to lay on. Maybe one day he'll stop taking naps in the afternoon, because it's always those naps that cause him to sleep through until stupid o'clock.

A quick check of his watch tells him that it's nearly 11pm, and with a heavy sigh, he hauls himself up into a seated position. His secretary is probably long gone by now, and probably most people in the office too, if not all of them. So he doesn't see any harm in leaving his office without his shoes on for now. There's not going to be anyone around to see him anyway, so it really doesn't matter all that much.

He gets up off of the sofa and moves over to his door, clicking the lock left to unlock it before he leaves his office and heads for the kitchen area. His mouth is dry as hell, and he makes yet another mental note to keep a jug of water or something on his desk for situations like these. Hell, maybe he'll invest in one of those water coolers. That sounds like a great idea. He ponders on that as he makes his way through the building, tie slightly askew, hair mussed, and it's no secret that he's just woken up.

When he reaches the kitchen, he heads straight for the cupboard where he knows the glasses to be, and wastes no time in pouring himself a cold glass of water which he gulps down, not dissimilar to a man lost in a desert and desperate for water. He finishes the whole thing, and perhaps sets the glass down a little too heavy on the sideboard, the thud echoing loudly around the empty office.

Good job no-one else is here, he supposes.

\- - - - - - - -

He takes a break because he thinks, with some amusement, that if he sees another can of baked beans in his life, he's going to lose it. He's planned it very meticulously, as precise as he is with his paintings and sketches. One day, he will destroy Heinz. But for now? Mudah is happy to put down his pencils and head to the kitchen to grab some coffee.

Except he doesn't. He drops a quarter along the way, and he ends up on all fours beneath a desk trying to get it out from wherever it is; it's too dark in the empty offices. He could've turned on the lights, but he's tired and it's not what he wants to do. What he wants to do is get his money, get his coffee, and carry on. What he _actually_ wants is to leave and never come back.

Or, come back after a week or so. He wants vacations. He can't stand looking at that asshole Miller in the face anymore.

A loud thud echoes, indicating someone else is in the building. And suddenly Mudah is so startled that he stands up, and when he does his head hits the desk with incredible force.

" _Fuck!_ "

Mudah crawls away, defeated and willing to leave his coin to the mercy of the morning's vacuum cleaner. He sits back, rubbing at his head and wincing. He spots him, then. And here he is, a fool, ass on the carpet and exhausted and frankly, quite hungry. "Mr. Bennett," he says anyways, with as much dignity as he can muster, which is _very fucking little_. He wants to say Bennett looks worse, because at least Mudah has his tie on and it's almost impeccably put, but the man might as well be on the cover of a magazine for women who dream of the perfect husband.

He's dashing. Even half-asleep.

"Uh. What are you doing here?"

\- - - - - - - -

He hears Mudah before he sees him, mainly because he hears him shout ' _fuck_ ' pretty loudly, and it's a good job there _isn't_ anyone else here, because that's absolutely not appropriate language for a workplace. He exits the kitchen area, heading towards the voice, and that's when he sees him.

He's sitting on the carpet, for some fucking reason, and rubbing at his head. He probably bumped it on the underside of a desk or something, but then _why_ was he underneath a desk? Those are answers he doubts that he'll ever get a proper answer to, so he doesn't ask them.

"Working," he says simply, even though it's pretty obvious by the way that he looks right now that he isn't. But he doubts that Mudah is going to call him out on it, and if he does, Hugh'll be pretty impressed. And he could always make the excuse that he's been working on a particularly trying ad read which accounts for his slightly disheveled look. He can be pretty convincing when he wants to be. It is, after all, part of his job.

"What are you still doing here so late? I didn't think creative liked to stay behind once the bars opened." The same can be said for anyone that works in the agency, so it's not really an insult as such, more of an inside joke that everyone here is kind of in on.

\- - - - - - - -

Right. Because of course Mr. Bennett stays up late too, he didn’t get to where he was by slacking off or leaving early. Still, he wonders if that’s healthy at all, and why Mudah believes him, even if it’s obvious the man just woke from a nap. He has a family. They must miss him, surely.

He barely holds back from rolling his eyes. He stands up, adjusts his vest and promptly shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s making himself look smaller almost subconsciously. Mr. Bennett’s a force to be reckoned with. Besides, he rarely talks to the man outside work-related matters. This is definitely weird. But he finds he quite likes it.

Idiot.

“Working,” and the way he says it parrots Hugh’s, except there’s an obvious tinge of playfulness in the word that becomes clearer when his lips quirk into a little smile. It’s there for a matter of seconds, and is quickly whisked away when he turns to look at the direction he just came from. “Uh. Figured I’d get something done ahead of time? It’s not like I need to go back home. And... I don’t know. Got carried away, I guess.”

He clenches his jaw, the angles on it sharper with the kitchen’s dull lighting seeping onto the room. “Didn’t really expect anyone else to be here. No offence,” he adds quickly, and stupidly, because there is absolutely no offence to be taken from that until he points it out. His face turns warm, and he walks towards the kitchen.

“Gonna get some coffee,” he says, and when he walks past him he smells his cologne. Expensive. He just _knows_ it. “You want something, Mr. Bennett?” 

\- - - - - - - -

It is absolutely not healthy at all, even though this time he's actually gotten a decent amount of sleep. But what isn't healthy about this situation is that he only had to nap at work because he's not sleeping well at home. Maybe it's a deep-seated guilt that's keeping him here.

He watches Mudah as he passes him, taking note of his angular features for almost a few seconds too long, before he follows him through to the kitchen. A coffee is an absolute terrible idea right now, but he's going to have one anyway, because he could use the company for a little while, until he inevitably treks back to his office to try and sleep away the rest of the night. It's gotten to the point now where he even keeps a spare pair of clothes in his desk drawer, just in case, which is a pretty sad way to live.

"You're not my secretary, you don't have to get me anything." He seats himself at the small table that's in there, and resists the temptation to fold his arms on top of it and just take a five minute nap. Maybe he _does_ need that coffee after all. "But since you asked, I'll have a black coffee, two sugars." He's not one to turn down the offer of a coffee when it's being made by someone else.

Again, he watches Mudah for a moment, before he remembers himself and where he is, instead taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up. "You smoke?" He asks, offering him the pack. Most people do, especially in this building, but it never hurts to ask, just in case. He's known some creative types that don't like to smoke because they ended up getting ash all over their artwork and they just never took up the habit.

\- - - - - - - -

Black coffee, two sugars; just like he does. He doesn’t think of it anymore than he should. It’s just coffee. He rummages the kitchen for two mugs, two spoons, then napkins. But those are tucked in a drawer below, so he leans down and snatches them. His head hurts when he does that.

“Yeah.” At this point he’s embraced his smoking problem, despite his mother’s harsh words and his father’s disapproval. They’re lucky not to know about the other things he puts in his system. The coffee doesn’t take too long to prepare, so he ends up taking a cigarette from Hugh. “Just not so much here. Mostly at home.”

Here he _drinks_ , but Hugh isn’t interested in that. He’s certain he’s been spotted with one or two glasses of something, in any case– the creatives’ stash, the one that’s never as good as the others but is always new because it rarely lasts more than a couple of days, at most. _Mea culpa_. Their work is demanding.

“I really thought I was alone. It’s a long weekend, people want to spend time with their families, and all.” There’s a question there, but one he isn’t certain he’s going to get an answer to. “...Do you need help? With... anything?”

\- - - - - - - -

Most people are spending time with their families, but he's not most people. First of all, it doesn't help that he's the director of the creative department, so he's basically required to make sure everything is done as it needs to be regardless of whether it's a long weekend or not. And second of all, his wife has taken the kids to see her parents over the weekend, and he'd made up an excuse about having a deadline to meet - 'there's always a deadline, Hugh,' she'd said - because he doesn't think he could face the in-laws right about now.

Much like Mudah expected, his unspoken question does go unanswered, because Hugh isn't going to volunteer that kind of information so willingly. But, he actually _could_ use some help. Before he'd taken his nap - which he should really stop calling a nap, because he slept for about 7 hours, and that really doesn't constitute as a nap - he'd been working on copy for Polaroid, and coming up with absolutely nothing because he knows shit all about photography.

"Polaroid sent over their new instant camera, and they want something that's going to appeal to the average homeowner. Maybe, uh...Housewives too." He exhales slowly, smoke curling from his mouth his nostrils as he thinks for a second. "Maybe you could take a look at it and come up with something better than what I've got."

And really, it wouldn't take a lot. Even though it should technically be marketed towards him, he's struggling because he's not the average homeowner. And he doesn't know much about what his wife wants either.

\- - - - - - - -

He would think it an incredibly funny coincidence if it weren’t for the fact that Mr. Bennett, head of creatives, _is_ asking for help. He didn’t think he’d say yes. He didn’t think he’d get this far. He flexes his hands, which are a little sweaty now. He doesn’t know if he’s more scared of letting him down or excited about having a glimpse of his work. It’s _Polaroid_.

“I have a Polaroid,” he mentions stupidly, because Hugh didn’t fucking ask. But his tongue has a mind of his own, and it helps as a distraction as he prepares their coffees. The unlit cigarette is tucked behind his ear for the time being. “Usually take pictures of, ah, parties and events–“ he fails to mention what sort of parties and events they are, “they’re _really_ great. You said this was instant?”

Though. He isn’t sure how he can help with the housewives bit. Mudah is no housewife. And he thinks it’s stupid to divide sexes like that, but saying those things in a workplace like this gets him funny looks. The ones he already gets because people call him a queer behind his back (and sometimes to his face too). He knows it. He’s not entirely daft.

“I’ll be happy to provide any assistance,” he says, setting the mugs on the table, sits down and takes off the cigarette and looks at him apologetically. _A light would be nice._ “But. Probably only half of it? I– I don’t have a wife. So I don’t know... what women want.” He smiles a little and leaves it at that.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh finds his eyes drifting down to Mudah's hand when he mentions that he's not married, as though looking for a wedding ring. His own wedding ring starts to feel too tight on his finger. "Yeah, you're not the only one." He says, almost under his breath, but actually just loud enough that Mudah can probably hear it. So if they both have no idea what women want, then they're both a little screwed really, aren't they?

And then he stops thinking about his wife, and how much he disappoints her, and his brain catches up with what Mudah had said before. "Wait, did you say you already have a Polaroid?" He reaches out to light Mudah's cigarette for him as he asks this, and his fingers ever so slightly brush against the other's man cheek as he does so.

"What made you get it? Why Polaroid and not...Kodak, for example." It always helps to know why people go for the products that they do over something else. Coca Cola over Pepsi, Maidenform over Playtex, Polaroid over Kodak. It doesn't matter that the products are essentially the same, it's the _advertising_ that makes people choose. The average person likes the flashy, eye-catching advertisement, something they'll remember when they go into the store to buy a new product.

\- - - - - - - -

It's funny. It's very obvious to him that he doesn't know what women want because he's never dealt with them that way. He wonders, however, what _Hugh_ means by that. He wants to believe there's a reason why, suddenly, the man's fingers brush against his cheek. But. He's no idiot, and he's better off in the shadows anyway. Here, especially. Work and personal life are truly two separate aspects of Mudah. Most men cheat on their wives. He doesn't quite do that.

He inhales, hollowing his cheek, eyes cast own as he focuses on the little flame and the tip of his cigar. Once its lit, he pulls back, and shrugs.

"Cheaper," and he grins, because to him not everything has to be about brands and comparisons. He would like to own both cameras. He would like to own many things, but sometimes when given a choice, sure, he'll definitely look at prices before. "And it's practical. Smaller. I can carry it anywhere and capture the moment. I took some pictures at Café Amber a few days ago, place was crowded, but no damage came to it. Sorry. Might not be as helpful as you want."

His elbow is on the table, and he rests his head on his hand. "I wanted to be a photographer. But it was a hit or miss thing, and I needed money for my mother's medicines. Besides, now I'm here. And I like drawing. I'm not trying to suck up to you, Mr. Bennett," he grins again, "it's the truth."

\- - - - - - - -

Café Amber.

Anyone who knows anything about the queer community knows about Café Amber. Admittedly, Hugh doesn't know all that much at all, but he knows enough, and he's heard of Café Amber. But to comment on that would show his knowledge on the subject, and that would be showing his hand, so he focuses on what Mudah said about the camera instead. He feels like he's been handed a loaded gun, and he has to be careful not to shoot himself in the temple with it.

"So it was cheaper, and practical. You can carry it anywhere and capture the moment," he's essentially just repeated what Mudah said, but the dots in his brain seem to be connecting in some way. "You're there, you see something that interests you, and you can take the photo and have it in your hands minutes later. Sure, you still have to develop it yourself, but it's easy, and it's there in your hand. And you like photography, so I guess that's a big draw for you."

He taps his cigarette against the ashtray, watching as the ash falls off the end, before he looks back up at Mudah. "What if I told you that with this new Polaroid, you could have that same photo but in under a minute and that the camera would develop it for you? Would that be something worth considering when you're looking for a camera?"

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh is doing that thing, the one everyone admires so much, but he’s doing it to him and Mudah isn’t too sure how to feel about it. Flattered, maybe? That this is one of the few times they’ve actually sat down and talked about something that is admittedly work related, but it’s different. Photography is important for him. And Mudah just told him something no one else knows, and Hugh is crafting something with it.

It’s fascinating to see him work, however. How he can conjure up something that you might not have needed until the moment he suggested it. He would’ve made a great criminal. He could charm the pants off anyone if he wanted to. Too bad it’s not like that. It’s why he’s the boss, after all.

Mudah coughs and puts his cigarette down. “ _What?_ ”

He’s intrigued. He’s beyond intrigued. And he wonders if Polaroid has given Hugh one of those cameras or if this is yet highly hypothetical. He supposes it doesn’t matter. It’s exciting. It’s obvious in the way Mudah sits up a little straight, brings the cigarette back to his lips and fixes his eyes on Hugh’s cheek. Not quite eye contact, but close enough.

“Shit, I’d definitely buy that. Did you just sell me a camera, Mr. Bennett?”

And he laughs, looking away, but definitely more relaxed. There’s a few wrinkles around his eyes, otherwise he looks even younger in the yellow kitchen light. “Something about faster than light. I guess. Instant memories. Memories to share.”

\- - - - - - - -

"I think I just sold you a camera, Mr. Nassar." He stubs out his cigarette now and gets to his feet, coffee cup completely ignored. The spark in his brain has been lit and he's wide awake now, no need for caffeine to keep him going. "Now that I've got you interested, why don't you test out the hardware?"

Without waiting for a confirmation from Mudah that he's going to follow him, he heads for his office where the camera is being kept. It _should_ be kept locked up, which it usually is unless he's in his office, but no-one's here this late at night - except for tonight, obviously - and no-one even knows that he has it.

It had been sent to him by Polaroid, who they weren't even courting as a client yet, because they wanted to see what he could do with it before they even entertained the idea of coming to the agency as a client. Which is...Pretty flattering, actually, because he's sure that he's got a first look at this. And it's interesting, to him anyway, that he's choosing to share it with Mudah, but that's neither here nor there right now.

"The speed angle is good. We want people to know how quickly they can have a photo in their hand," he's talking as he's walking, and he doesn't think he's actually tried the camera out yet.

No, he definitely hasn't. Photography isn't his thing, not at all. Sure, he's taken a good few photos and home videos of his kids, but that's the extent of his skills. And even then, they're not in any way whatsoever professional photos, more like keepsakes just for him to have. "Come in," he says as he enters his office, mainly out of force of habit, because he knows that Mudah is going to follow him in when he'd already been invited into his office back in the kitchen.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh doesn’t need to repeat himself. Mudah stutters and gets up and stumbles on his way to his office, his heart beating a little faster than usual. Maybe this job _has_ its perks after all.

He doesn’t even realise he’s standing at the doorway, eyes a little wide but there’s excitement in them. To think of a darkroom as possibly irrelevant in a near future is an abstract idea, but one he wishes to know more about. Instant development? He can’t imagine it. When he steps inside the office, he realises he really doesn’t have to imagine at all.

He waits for him to give him the camera, his hands busy with the cigarette. He’s smoking a little faster, if only to put it out and not waste it before Hugh gives him a precious object and its manual. He doesn’t want to burn it or get ashes all over it.

When he does, he takes it in eager hands, his brow slightly furrowed. It’s very similar to the one he has. But not quite. He looks at Hugh for permission to fiddle with it; though he is familiar with equipment like this so he knows what he’s doing. He’s concentrated, even when he so casually raises it to his eye, and snaps a picture of Hugh.

He thinks it’s a bad picture. He doesn’t have to wait long to see it’s _not_.

“Huh.”

He looks down at it, and shows it to him.

\- - - - - - - -

The flash goes off, and Hugh starts counting without realising that he's doing it. In the dark of the office, it's a little blinding, and he brings a hand up to rub at his eyes for a couple of moments to clear the white dots from his vision. When he's done, he blinks a couple of times, and then there's being a photo brandished at him.

"56 seconds," he says out loud, before his brain can catch up with his mouth. It's just the next thing that he wanted to say, so he said it, not even taking into account that he should probably _look_ at the photo.

He takes a step closer, and even with the dark room that they're in, it's not a bad photo at all. "That's good," he tells him. "Not bad." He doesn't take the photo from him though, instead moving to sit on the edge of his desk, hands lightly gripping onto the wood. "56 seconds," he says again, because that's the important part.

That was _quick_ , and Mudah literally does have a developed photo in his hand in under a minute. Hugh doesn't know much about instant photography, because he does know all about taking his photos to go get developed, and that there's always at least one or two missing because the place gets so much film in every day, because they're the only ones who can do it. But if you could do it yourself? And eliminate all that? That's the future, right there.

"So, what are we thinking? I liked what you said before. What was it...? Instant memories. I like that. Let's build on that." He's prompting Mudah, hoping that he'll say something that'll spark a brain wave.

\- - - - - - - -

There’s an expression that comes to mind, once he’s holding the picture in his hand. He hears Hugh say something but he is too awed by the little bit of paper in his hand to listen. There’s an expression his mother says without discrimination, at the skies and sunrises and sometimes, at her husband, too.

This camera is wonderful. And so is the picture. Even with flash, Hugh looks amazingly handsome. He is the epitome of masculinity. He’s dashing, and his eyes are so bright and he’s smiling a little, or maybe he was annoyed at the sudden light, but. Mudah likes it. So he whispers, “subhan Allah,” because he is stricken by Hugh, and the camera, and this opportunity he has been given.

Opportunities. Memories. Fifty-six seconds of utter and unimaginable wonder. Mudah looks up at him, his tongue sticking out a little. He puts down the camera. “The world’s finest instant camera... No wait, that‘s horrible. Instant record. Instant memories. Snap it, see it. Hm. Get the picture?”

His expression shifts to amusement. He doesn’t know if Hugh will like it, but he does, and he just made himself laugh. He _wants_ this camera so badly.

He wants something else too, but he buries it deep, deep down, and maybe only lets it surface when he looks at him in the eye. Fleeting, but unobtainable. It’s fine. As long as he gets to talk to him, it’s fine. He can resign himself to this.

\- - - - - - - -

Holy shit.

Holy shit, that’s it.

‘ _Snap it, see it_ ’, it’s so beautifully simple. It describes the function of the camera perfectly, highlighting the one thing that gives it an edge over other cameras. The phrase is almost like a light switch for him, filling his head with ideas that flow so naturally it’s like he was born to do this job.

He’s silent for probably too long, hands gripping the edge of his desk tight enough that his knuckles are starting to turn white. He gets an image in his head of a father and son, holding a boat that they’ve made together. In the foreground, the Polaroid camera, complete with a photo that mirrors the father and son. In bold letters underneath, ‘ **Snap It...See It!’.**  

He comes back to himself then, eyes focusing until he meets Mudah’s gaze, and his mouth quirks into a smile. He’s itching to get in contact with Polaroid immediately, but it’s 11pm and he doesn’t think they’ll appreciate the call. So instead, he gets to his feet and crosses the room to Mudah, a hand reaching out for him to shake. “Congratulations, you just wrote copy.”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah thinks his idea is so stupid it’s about to get him fired. Yells, he can deal with. Probably not a folder of papers being thrown at him, which is why he moves slightly to the left- if it does come to that, he can duck and make a run for the exit. But being fired is very low on his list of things to do.

How is he going to pay for rent? How is he going to keep sending money to his mother and father? His siblings will never forgive him. Oh, and by the way he’s grabbing the desk, maybe he’ll get punched too, so he only prays he’s quick about it.

And then he stands up and offers his hand.

He takes it, thrilled, but... Standing this close, he lifts his eyes to meet Hugh’s, briefly, and truly sees how blue they are. And he’s almost frozen in his spot. Mudah hardly makes eye contact. It’s difficult. He feels it is invasive, except he can’t look away, because he feels like there’s something missing in Hugh; maybe, just maybe, he can figure it out and maybe he can drink in more of the sight of him too.

His eyes drift down to their hands. Hugh’s grip is stronger than his’, even when excitement curses through his veins and makes him squeeze a little harder than usual. His hand burns. There’s no other way to say it. He loosens his grip, just slightly, if Hugh wishes to let go then he can. But he doesn’t pull back. He could’ve left. Under the stupid excuse of going back to his little desk, or going home. He finds he doesn’t want to do either of those things.

And it hurts him so much, because Hugh, with his perfect house, perfect wife and perfect children, would never even think of him like that. He realises his breath has slowed down just a little, even if his heart beats like a war drum against his ears. _Congratulations_. You just lost.

\- - - - - - - -

The very moment that their hands touch, Hugh feels something. Something that he hasn't felt in a _long_ time, not since he first met his wife. Because that perfect house, perfect wife, perfect children, American Dream thing that he's got going on right now? It's all a sham, really. Sure, he has a nice house, and he's devoted to his kids, but he's in a loveless marriage for a good few years now. They only sleep in the same bed still because it's so much easier than explaining to the kids why Mommy and Daddy sleep in different beds.

And he thinks that she knows, deep down, the reason for it. Neither of them have explicitly said it out loud, because it's not exactly the done thing, but there are knowing glances thrown his way sometimes. Any time the word ' _queer_ ' gets mentioned, he sees her sometimes out of the corner of his eye, looking at him in the exact way that he's looking at her, just out of the corner of her eye. He doesn't know how she'd react if he just came out and said it.

It's not like he never loved her, and it's not like he was never attracted to her, because they wouldn't have two beautiful kids together if he didn't. It's just that over the years, he's come to realise that he's more attracted to people who are more...Masculine, to put it delicately. He's never acted on it, only going so far as to stare maybe a little bit too long at some of the male models that came in for ad shoots; but he's never been incredibly overt about it, so he doesn't think anyone's cottoned on just yet.

He finds it difficult to draw his eyes away from Mudah, and he can't remember the last time that he blinked. His own gaze drops down to look at their hands, where they touch, where skin meets skin and connects and it's... _Electric_. Mudah's grip loosens a little, and Hugh realises that he's already taken this too far. He shouldn't do this, he's Mudah's boss. He shouldn't do this, he's _married_. But he doesn't _feel_ married, despite the ring on his finger and the marriage certificate that says otherwise. Legally, yes, he is. But in his heart, he needs something else. In his heart, he needs _this_.

He swallows heavily, and slowly withdraws his hand then, though his eyes dart back up to look at Mudah's face, to gauge his reaction and see if he's crossed the line. It's a goddamn handshake, it doesn't mean anything, and yet...Something's different now. Something's changed in the air, and it's so thick that he could swipe his hand through it and watch it move aside, it crackles with that same electricity that sparked between them when they touched.

Neither of them has spoken for a while, and he doesn't want to be the first one to break the silence, even though in such an oxymoronic way that silence is deafening. At the same time, he wants to say something. He wants to let Mudah know that this is okay. That whatever this is, they'll figure it out, and they don't have to be ashamed in this office, where the door is closed, and no-one else is here, and no-one else can see them. But he can't speak, he can't make his mouth form the words and they get stuck in his throat.

For once in his life, he doesn't know what to do.

\- - - - - - - -

That electricity Hugh feels, Mudah feels it too. It is intoxicating and it’s _very fucking obvious_ to him, all of a sudden. The moment Hugh falls silent and that silence sinks in and suffocated them in his office, Mudah feels- lighter. Like he can breathe a little, even if there’s a heavy weight on his chest because he shouldn’t fucking do this.

This is Mr. Bennett. His boss. This is a man who can’t be caught doing this, lest he risk everything he has. Mudah doesn’t want him to lose himself in order to find himself. It would be selfish. But at the same time, he _wants_ him. Desperately.

He steps back, his hands uselessly hanging from his sides. He turns towards the door, grabs the handle. If he is about to do this, there is no turning back. No more hiding from the one man he is supposed to be hiding from; though it goes both ways. There is always risk. But he can’t ignore what just happened between them. He wants that again. Perhaps now more than ever.

He closes the door, but he does not leave. He closes it so they are both inside his office, shut from the rest of the world, but completely bare to each other.

When he turns and looks at him, there is something different in his eyes. As if he can handle whatever is thrown his way. His lips part, wanting to say something, but he can’t. He awaits for Hugh to react instead. There’s no way out of this, for any of them. Mudah is fine with it. He would rather feel this than regret at letting something like this go. His eyes flicker over all of him. Unabashed and undeserving, really. He feels a little warmer.

Wordlessly, he pulls at his collar, and swallows.

\- - - - - - - -

He's leaving.

Mudah is going to walk out of that door, this is going to be over, and they can move on. Though, Hugh doesn't think that he's ever going to really get over this. It's the first tangible connection he's felt with someone of the same sex, and as much as he wants to chase it, he isn't going to push this if Mudah wants to get the hell out of there. It makes sense, because even though he's pretty sure that Mudah isn't heterosexual at all - the Café Amber name drop was a pretty big hint - he's pretty sure no-one in their right mind would want to go anywhere near their boss.

And then he's proven wrong.

The door clicks shut, and Mudah is still on this side of it. They're together, in his office, with the door shut, and as Mudah turns to him, the look in his eyes makes it pretty fucking clear what he wants. Especially with the way he's practically _devouring_ him with his gaze right now, taking in every single inch of him.

Fine, if that's what he wants, then that's what he'll get. God knows Hugh wants it too, so much so that he isn't going to be coy about this, and he isn't going to play hard to get.

He crosses the room again, closing the space between them until he is mere _inches_ away from Mudah. But he doesn't close the gap between them just yet. He's going to take a little time with this, to really savour that this is _happening_. His next move is a power play, something to assert his dominance even though he knows he doesn't really need to, not in this situation, not with Mudah. But it's instinct at this point, and he can't help himself.

His hand reaches out, though not to touch him, but to go straight past him and turn the lock so that it clicks into place, and they are _truly_ alone. Even if the office was full, no-one could disturb them now. His head tilts slightly, and he looks down at Mudah, eyes half-lidded as he takes a slow breath and just...Waits, for now. To see what he'll do, how he'll react to their proximity.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah can feel his breathing become a little laboured. He hasn’t even touched him. But he’s walking towards him and suddenly he towers over him. Hugh is so close if he dares lift a finger he is sure he will feel the soft fabric of his suit beneath his fingertips, the heat of his body. He smells his cologne, and cigarette, and when he looks up he finds himself absolutely speechless.

He’s always liked taller men. Stronger. Mudah likes to be under their grasp and he likes to run his hands over skin and hair and defined muscles. He wonders if Hugh even knows what he likes.

His mouth is dry. When the lock on the door echoes across the entire office, a gunshot finally being fired, he opens the dam, and Mudah feels _free_.

His chest heaves with a frustrated breath a final time before he lifts himself on the tips of his feet. He holds Hugh’s face in his hands, though he spares another glance at him; asking if he wants this, if it’s okay, if he’s certain he wants to see who he truly is. His jaw clenches, and then he kisses him. It’s rough and it’s a little sloppy, but he is desperate.

He doesn’t care about his office anymore. About appearances and about being _quiet_. He’s willing to give himself to Hugh. That’s all that matters now.

\- - - - - - - -

It's okay. It's _more_ than okay.

Mudah's lips connect with his, and honestly, it's not as alien as he'd been expecting. Actually, he's not sure _what_ he'd been expecting. It's not incredibly dissimilar to kissing a woman. Mudah has soft lips that slot together almost perfectly against his, like they're made for him, like he's made to be kissed by him. His frame is slight, and Hugh easily wraps an arm around his back to pull him close, to pull their bodies flush together.

This is where it begins to differ, because there's a distinct lack of breasts, hard muscle in its place instead, and it feels _good_. Good enough that Hugh pushes against him now, pressing him back against the door, one hand settling on the wood above his head as the other arm tightens around his waist.

It hasn't been like this in a long time, he hasn't been this into kissing someone since, again, he first met his wife, when all they would do was lazily make-out as though they were the only two people in the world. It feels a bit like that now, like no-one else exists, that only the two of them are important.

He breaks the kiss, if only to allow his lips to travel downwards, leaving chaste and rough kisses on every inch of skin he can find, almost like he's claiming Mudah as his own. He presses against him a little more insistently, his hips rolling forwards just a little of their own volition.

\- - - - - - - -

The hard door presses against his back, but he finds himself tilting his head back and leaning against it for support. He doesn’t need it, not with Hugh keeping him so close. But it grounds him, as if this is but a hallucination, except they’re still in the building. It’s eleven, and outside the city thrives and pulses with the promise of night life.

His fingers lock around a strand of dark hair, already messy from his nap. He pulls at it, urging him to keep moving, until he breaks the kiss and his lips are no longer on his’, but on his _neck_. Mudah breathes out a curse, choked and needy and his voice is a little deeper than usual, heavy with desire. It was alarming how quickly he undid him. How willing he was to give this man whatever he wanted.

But danger is thrilling.

He bites his lip and shuts his eyes, and meets his hips halfway when he lifts his leg and hooks it around Hugh. They’re even closer, if that’s possible. It feels like they’re becoming one just by standing like this, and their clothes are still on. Speaking of which.

A hand remains on his head, sliding to the back of his neck to squeeze as he bares his own for him. The other quickly reaches for his shirt’s buttons, flail and fumble to unbutton it before he gives up and goes for his zipper instead. There’s not a lot he can do trapped like this. Not that he’s _complaining_.

“Mr. Bennett,” he says, though for no reason other than to feel his name in his tongue, like a little prayer. Reverence and acknowledgment. It’s okay. He’s not going to tell anyone. He can be himself with him. He _needs_ Hugh to be himself.

\- - - - - - - -

His hand slides down from Mudah's back, so that he can settle it on his thigh instead. Even though he's slim, he has tight muscle almost _everywhere_ and Hugh likes the feel of it under his palm.

He catches Mudah's wrist with his other hand as it goes for his zipper, if only to stall him for a few moments. He captures his lips once more, in a slow and deep kiss, for just a little while, before he breaks the kiss once more. "Hugh," he corrects him, because it's all well and good for him to talk to him how he does at work, but he wants to hear his _name_ come out of that mouth.

The thought of it has him a little weak, and he's finding it harder and harder to control himself.

It's all too easy to just lift him up off his feet, settling Mudah's legs around his waist so that he's basically seated on him. Hugh's hands come to rest of his ass, because it's the best way to hold him up, and honestly? Because he _can_ , and he wants to. If they're going to do this, he's going to go all-in on it. He doesn't have to be ashamed of who he is here, with Mudah.

From this position, Hugh has to look up at Mudah, who now has the slightly higher ground, and the weight of him is reassuring. He leans up, craning his neck enough that he can kiss him once more, agonisingly slow.

\- - - - - - - -

“Hugh.”

He says it the way he thinks it is meant to be said. Slowly, tender, sweet wine against his lips and his tongue -which are now Hugh’s. What is he doing?

His grip on him tightens when he feels himself lifted off his feet. It had never occurred to him that Hugh was really fucking _strong_ , and the thought alone makes him gasp and lift his hips just enough against him. They kiss, and though he’s trying to enjoy it, he’s impatient. He does that again, because the hands holding him in place aren’t _helping_ at all.

He thinks of Hugh taking him there. He thinks of desecrating his desk, of breaking his couch, of the feeling of the carpet against his back. For now, all he does is grin against the kiss, run his tongue over his lips in a manner so filthy it completely clashes with the image of himself he presents to the outside world.

This is not his first time doing this. But perhaps it is Hugh’s, with a man, and that is fine. He just wants _him_. He remembers his pants, and gets back to undoing them. He rolls his hips, almost tentatively though rather desperate, and fixes his attention on his shirt. He doesn’t want to take things too fast– despite the way his breath hitches and the unexpected little moan that escapes him.

“Hugh. Come on.”

\- - - - - - - -

He tilts his head away a little, _just_ out of his reach, so that he can take a good look at Mudah for a second. He looks about as wrecked as Hugh feels right now, and God, it's...It's fucking _hot_.

Sure, this is his first time with a man, but something about it just seems so right. It feels as natural as it can be for something that he's never really touched on before, because he feels like he can draw from his experiences with women. But at the same time it's completely different, and it's a new experience, and he _likes_ it. But maybe he feels like that because it's so easy with _Mudah_ , and that's a little weird to think about. But he doesn't dwell on it, because he wants to be in the moment.

And the moment takes him, takes the both of them, to the sofa.

He kisses Mudah as he carries him across the room. He's walked this floor enough times that he could do it with his eyes closed, so he doesn't need to look where he's going. He can concentrate fully on how well they mesh together, how _good_ Mudah tastes. He could do this all night, quite happily, but he also needs that escalation.

His knee connects with the edge of his sofa, and he carefully lowers Mudah down onto it, settling on top of him and slotting easily between his legs. He's holding himself up, bicep and tricep muscles tense, and yet it still seems effortless. He's breathing a little heavier, as he looks down at Mudah through heavy-lidded eyes, and all he wants to do is kiss him again. But he waits, and he checks that this is okay and that Mudah's okay with this, because he _needs_ more.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is more than fine with this. A little cautious that he won’t drop him as he’s being carried to the couch, but he is stupid to think Hugh would ever let something like that happen. For all the unbridled passion in his kisses and his touch, the hunger that attacks them both and leaves them breathless, Hugh is surprisingly caring. He doesn’t have a lot of evidence to support this but the way he looks at him when he’s on his back. But he thinks that’s enough.

He lifts both legs to his waist this time, lifts himself up slightly so that their hips meet. He’s not usually this bold. Who knows what it is about Hugh that makes him like this. The friction is immensely welcome, setting his nerves on fire and kindling the one pooling in his stomach with each breath Hugh takes. Each of his own, too. He meets his lips and wraps his arms around him.

It does make him wonder how this is going to turn out for them. If Hugh will be able to see him in the face by Monday, or if this is a thing he must treasure for it will only happen once. The nervousness he feels makes him deepen the kiss. He asks him not to let him go. And with his fingers digging into his back, he asks him to _move_.

\- - - - - - - -

There's not really enough time to process the look on Mudah's face, because they're kissing again, and Hugh lowers himself down again enough so that they're firmly pressed together. He's not fully laying on him, still holding himself up a little because he doesn't want to put his full weight on the smaller man underneath him.

But the close contact, that fact that he basically _is_ almost laying on him at this point, that they're pressed together so firmly, has him kissing Mudah a little more hungrily. He can't help himself, like he's almost desperate for his touch, which...Actually, he kind of is. He _needs_ this right now, and he's glad he's getting it from someone who he knows is probably going to be able to help him through this, and steer him a little in the right direction.

He's getting into this now, and he reaches behind himself to grab hold of Mudah's hands and push them up over his head. Hugh's hands now slip down to Mudah's wrists and hold them there, for now, as he bites gently at Mudah's lower lip before he kisses him deeply again. He moves though, like he'd been prompted too before, hips rolling against Mudah's firmly, the motion and friction causing him to groan softly into the other man's mouth.

Apparently, he doesn't need all that much steering.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is kissing him with closed eyes. And suddenly they fly open, pupils dark and wide, when he realises he can’t move anymore. He can’t reach for his hair, which is tousled; he realises with awe this isn’t Mr. Bennett, head of creative department, anymore. This is a starving man who is pinning him down and doing whatever he wants to him.

Which is exactly what Mudah _wants_.

His hands curl into fists and tighten, and he opens his mouth to swear but instead a whine slips from him. He feels slightly embarrassed, until he doesn’t because the pressure of his pants is unbearable. He needs more of whatever Hugh is trying to do (and to think of _more_ is enough to drive him to a frantic babbling. He doesn’t know if he’s muttering in English, or a language Hugh will not recognise).

He rolls his hips again, this time a little tougher- he’s sending a message. One emphasised by a feeble attempt at breaking free. He doesn’t really want him to remove his hands. If anything, he wants him to assert himself. Roughness drives him wild.

\- - - - - - - -

He knows exactly what message Mudah is trying to get across, because he's been with submissive women like this before. When he was younger, when he was a lot more promiscuous, but still as dominant as he is now. He's always been tall, strong, overpowering, and women _loved_ that.

So his grip tightens just a little around Mudah's wrists, and he relishes in the desperate little noises that he makes, because they only serve to spur him on. He grants Mudah one more kiss, a quick press of lips, before he explores downwards again, rough kisses placed against his neck as he starts to rut his hips against Mudah's.

But his angle's a little off, and he's not satisfied with it, so he shifts his grip on Mudah's wrists to just the one hand, his palm and fingers big enough to circle both wrists at once. His free hand hooks under Mudah's thigh and pulls his leg up _just_ a little more, and that's _it_. His head drops onto Mudah's shoulder now with a heavy groan as he grinds hard against him.

\- - - - - - - -

The grip around his wrists is surely going to leave a mark of some sort, because suddenly he can’t move at all. It hurts just slightly, in a good way, because he can tell by the movement of his hips that he’s letting go. He’s driven by this, and him, maybe. He likes to think there’s a reason why they’re doing this at all.

Suddenly he shifts and it feels like he’s seeing stars beneath closed eyelids. But he’s not quite there yet. He swallows and thinks there is no harm in turning his head, breathing deeply and murmuring: “Harder, Hugh.”

His voice is not soft like a woman’s. It’s hoarse and deep with lust. He’s stronger, and there’s a light stubble Hugh can probably feel when he nuzzles him and then let’s his tongue flicker out so he licks his earlobe. Whatever Hugh expected out of this, he only hopes he feels as good as _he_ does.

With a thrust, he groans his name again, loud and unabashed. He is thankful there is no one else in the building. Not that he cares.

\- - - - - - - -

It feels _so_ good, enough that it almost unleashes something primal in him, something he hasn't tapped into in a long fucking time. As of this moment, he's a man solely driven by his lust, and his want for Mudah, and fucking hell, he needs to come right the fuck _now_ before he loses his mind.

He lets go of Mudah's wrist so that he can take hold of his hand instead now, lacing their fingers together as he grips onto it to kind of ground himself a little. "Fuck-" he breathes, and he turns his head enough that he can graze his teeth sharply against Mudah's neck. Not hard, not even to leave any kind of mark behind because people will absolutely talk and he doesn't want to put Mudah through that. But it's definitely almost like he's trying to mark his territory, because he's not even _thinking_ right now.

A few hard thrusts later and he finally lets go, Mudah's name falling from his mouth multiple times as his hips stutter to a halt, his breathing is harsh and ragged and hot against Mudah's neck. He feels unraveled and whole all at the same time.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah holds his hands, and the thinks there is something deeper then –he often swears it is but truthfully it is pleasure rising within him, and when he’s done the moment is gone, but this is too strong. It’s electrifying, distracting even from the teeth that graze against his neck.

His teeth on his neck. Mudah tilts his head back, baring his neck for him. Allowing him to mark him, if he wants to. The people at work already point at him, laugh, scowl. What’s another stripe? One he could wear with pride, probably. But he doesn’t, and he feels him tense on top of him. He takes only a few seconds longer, as he ruts agains his leg, seeking more friction.

He catches his breath, his mouth slightly agape, as if all the oxygen in the world is not enough to make him feel normal again. Maybe he just isn’t supposed to recover. He doesn’t think he wants to.

He wrangles a hand free of Hugh’s lingering touch, bends his wrist slightly and reaches down to touch his face. Warm. There’s a thin sheet of sweat covering his forehead. Mudah doesn’t want to think of how he looks like. Hugh seems pleased, and a little tired but _breathtakingly_ handsome. If he could only take a picture of him like this.

“...Are you okay?” Mudah hardly recognises his own voice, and it sort of cracks though the haze. But he has to ask.

\- - - - - - - -

He could fall asleep right here, if he's honest. He could curl around him and sleep for the rest of the night, but he knows that they'll both regret it in the morning. So he just takes a few moments to collect himself, to catch his breath, before he shifts the both of them so that they're kind of spooning on the sofa now, except they're face to face.

Because Hugh wants to see him, wants to see his face. It may be a little sentimental, but he doesn't care right now. "Yeah," his voice is a quiet rumble in his throat, and he leans his head forwards a little so that he can rest his forehead against Mudah's. His eyes close, and again he takes another moment.

It's almost silent in his office, other than the soft breathing that they're both doing, and again, it would be so easy to fall asleep, but he pulls his head back so that he can look at Mudah again. "...Are you? Okay?" Because it's only fair that he checks in on him too. This must be a little weird for him, considering he's just done _this_ with his boss.

Hugh feels less weird about it than he thought he would, both in terms of Mudah being his employee and Mudah...Well, being a guy. It just feels right, that's all, and he's not going to question that because he doesn't want to break the serenity of the moment. Though he wants to kiss him, he refrains for now, because he doesn't really know where they go from here.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah wants to clean himself up. But then Hugh turns to his side and puts his forehead against his', and he finds every ounce of tension that had pent up within him is no longer there. There's actually very little, if anything at all, with the exception of Hugh's warm breath and his scent. It dawns on him that... he might just fall asleep in his boss' office.

"Of course I am," he says, his voice a whisper. He _is_ , now even more so that he knows Hugh is not about to kick him out or shun him. With a little more clarity, he prefers not to think of what will come once the sun rises and once they wake. Besides, Hugh definitely looks fine. He actually looks... sweet. He has the privilege of seeing so many sides of him he would've never thought existed in the first place.

He feels untroubled. Mudah tilts his head, just enough to press a chaste kiss on Hugh's lips. "Can't wait to see what we do together." He speaks of the Polaroid ad. But maybe it sounds a little different, but he's too sleepy to notice.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few months later.

It’s late, and he’s a little drunk. Okay, he’s a little _more_ drunk than that, but he doesn’t care. His cheeks are stained with the remnants of where tears have tracked down, and he’s leaning against the wall outside Mudah’s apartment. He fumbles in his pocket for keys that aren’t there - they’re in a drawer in his office, why did he leave them there? - before giving up and letting his head fall against the wall.

It takes him a few moments to compose himself, before he lifts his hand and knocks solidly on the wooden door a few times. The sound echoes throughout the empty hallway, reverberates around his head and sounds louder, and how is it possible that he has the start of a hangover already?

\- - - - - - - -

It’s late, and Mudah’s brushing his teeth, the murmur of the television faint in the confines of the little bathroom. He keeps watching it because people at work recommend it. It’s not really his thing, but turning it on has become a habit that he can’t quite get rid of.

Then someone knocks, so he rinses his mouth and he wanders into the living area –he’s never called it living room because it’s not big enough, anyways. Theres a couch, and a little coffee table, and that’s pretty much it.

There’s not a lot of people who visit him, let alone at this time. He’s a little frightened as he walks over to the door and peeps through. But it’s _Hugh_ , so Mudah wastes no time in letting him in.

He’s been crying, and he stinks of alcohol.

Mudah allows him inside, glances at the hallway behind him, and promptly locks the door.

“Hugh?” He doesn’t know what’s going on, but- he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. Not in all these months they’ve been doing... whatever this is. There’s an uneasy sensation in his stomach. Obviously, he does not enjoy seeing him so distraught. Something feels off, beyond the fact that Hugh isn’t alright, at _all_. Like the world has just shifted.

“Hey,” he coaxes him further inside, grabs his arm and reaches up, almost instinctively, to cup his cheek. “Hey, come on. You want to sit? What happened?”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah leads him inside, and he follows, body running sort of on autopilot. In fact, he doesn’t even register that Mudah’s been talking to him until there’s a hand settled on his cheek, and his eyes finally focus to look at him.

Mudah’s hand is slightly wet, not sweaty though, he knows the difference. It’s just water, and Hugh can feel it, cold against his cheek, and he closes his eyes for a moment as he lets the coolness seep into his skin. It’s nice, and it takes away the slightly fuzzy feeling that the alcohol has given him.

When he eventually opens his eyes again, he’s still not _quite_ focused, everything’s still a little blurry, but he can see Mudah, like a brilliant beacon in a dark and stormy night sky. His breath catches in his throat, and he has to swallow against it to try and breathe again.

“I left my wife,” he tells him finally.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah stands still, and the only sign of acknowledgement, that he has heard and understood what he just said, is a small twitch of his fingers.

He’s careful. And it’s not to say he hasn’t thought about this. Because he has wondered many times what it would be like to have him all for himself. But not like this. Not drunk and broken and tired. He wipes away a tear with his thumb, and he leads him to his bed (theirs?) so he can lay down for a bit.

“I’m going to get you some water,” he announces, and does just that. The water is cold. Some of it spills while he’s pouring it. He grabs a cigarette too, for himself.

When he returns Mudah has calmed down slightly. He puts the glass on his bedside table and looks down at him. For once, he thinks, he looks... so small. Vulnerable. “I’m... sorry, Hugh.”

\- - - - - - - -

He’s led over to the bed, again almost on autopilot, and sits. He sits on the edge of the bed, not laying down because he doesn’t want to right now. He still has his coat and hat and shoes on, and taking them off is an extra effort that he can’t muster right now.

No wait, he’s _not_ wearing his hat, so where the fuck is that? Probably still in the bar he’d spent the night drowning his sorrows in.

Mudah sets a glass of water down on the bedside table, and Hugh’s attention fixates on that, on a small rivulet of cool water that runs slowly down the side of the glass. He can’t look at him, not at the moment, because he doesn’t _want_ to be seen like this. But he only came here because he _needed_ to be with him, he needed to be with his lover, even if it meant breaking away a part of him that he didn’t want to be seen by anyone.

“She won’t let me see the kids,” he says quietly, voice lacking any of its usual strong timbre. For once, he sounds weak and afraid, a far cry from the confident and strong persona that he wears on a day-to-day basis.

\- - - - - - - -

There it is.

Mudah is no genius. He doesn’t think he is anything out of the ordinary, often doubting his abilities even at work (which he has kept for a reason, and no, it’s not because he’s been sleeping with Hugh for months now). He has wondered why a man with Hugh’s wits would ever want to be with him. So no, he doesn’t think of himself as someone _smart_. But it doesn’t take smart to see that is exactly why Hugh is _heartbroken_ about this.

He blinks, and it’s as if there’s been a curtain pulled back, and he sees Hugh clearly. He has talked of his children before. He’s always liked the way his eyes light up, that little goofy smile that’s all white teeth and joy when he speaks of something he finds amusing while their mother does not. And it’s made him wonder if he would ever want something like that, but he doesn’t like thinking about it for long. He knows he can’t have that. Not if he wants to upkeep his lifestyle. It’s not possible for men like him.

This man is hurting because he can’t see his children. It’s cruel, he thinks. He’s angry, and he’s sad, and he’s _worried_. “Oh, Hugh.”

Mudah sits next to him, takes his face in his hands again and drags him down so their foreheads are pressed together. He keeps them there until he decides to rub his shoulders, the back of his neck. It’s easier to touch and to hold than to speak. There’s not a lot he can say that will make him feel better. He could assure him everything will turn out alright, but Mudah isn’t sure of what’s happening _now_.

He kisses his cheek very gently, and closes his eyes.

\- - - - - - - -

As their foreheads touch, and his own eyes slide shut again, he can feel himself start to shake slightly. It’s easier, like this, when they’re this close, to realise just how much Mudah cares for him. This intimate gesture, just holding him because he knows there’s really nothing that can be said, means everything.

His brow furrows just a little as Mudah’s hands move to his shoulders. The corner of his eyes crinkle from the movement of squeezing them shut a little tighter as those hands move to the back of his neck. When Mudah kisses his cheek, he lets out a quiet, broken sob that he immediately swallows against to try and keep it down.

“Sorry,” he apologises, and he doesn’t know why. Maybe it’s because he thinks that Mudah doesn’t want to see him like this, that it’s going to push him away because who wants to see a grown man crying? It’s the kind of toxic masculinity that he was brought up with but that he tries not to perpetuate, though it’s difficult sometimes not to slip back into old habits.

He pulls back a little, putting a bit of distance between them, as he averts his gaze. “Sorry,” he apologises again, clearing his throat this time in an attempt to stop his voice from cracking. “I should go. You don’t...You don’t need this.”

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn’t understand why he’s apologising. For allowing him to see him like this? It makes little sense, until he remembers who he is supposed to be. But Hugh should know better than to pretend around him. Mudah can’t do that out there. It takes strength because it’s cruel, and it’s unfair, and he knows the toll it takes on one’s mind. When he is with him, he can let go of those mindsets.

Is he apologising for interrupting his night? Silly. And if he thinks he is a burden on him, then he is gravely mistaken.

Mudah looks rather desperate, all of a sudden, his eyes widening just slightly. “I don’t want you to leave.”

It is, admittedly, selfish of him to want to keep him there. Perhaps he truly does want to be left alone. But he is drunk and he’s so fragile Mudah doesn’t think he can take the unforgiving streets of New York in this state. It would be stupid to let him go. Now, more than ever, he needs someone at his side. He likes to think he does, anyway.

“Please,” and he takes his hand in both of his’, runs fingertips over veins he has memorised by now, “Hugh. I want you to stay here, with me.”

\- - - - - - - -

He watches as Mudah takes his hand, eyes fixed on fingertips that are delicately tracing out patterns and lines that he’s traced out many a time before, and suddenly it’s all too much.

Everything’s too much, and he doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve to be treated with this much care and courtesy and attention, and dare he think it, love. He doesn’t deserve this because he’s been consistently cheating on his wife for the past few months, when they’ve always said that they’d be honest with each other. He’d broken his goddamn vows, which is the worst part, because even though he doesn’t find himself attracted to her anymore and even though he doesn’t want to be with her, he still holds love for her in his heart.

Rationally, he knows that there’s room in his heart for both of them, that he can still love her but be with Mudah and love _him_. Because he thinks he might, even though they’ve never really defined what it is that they have or what they’re doing here. It's not that he expected them to either, because they shouldn't have to. It's only been months, and they're content in what they're doing; sleeping together, that is. But there's also that undercurrent of something more than hides away between them. Something simple like watching Mudah's brand new TV together, curled around each other, fingers laced together.

It's incredibly...Romantic.

He doesn't deserve romantic. He's had his shot at that and he fucked it up because he had to be goddamn queer. Again, rationally, he knows that's not his fault, but his rational brain fell asleep around about the third whiskey sour, and now his drunk and idiotic brain has come into play, the one that makes bad decisions and irrational choices and thinks in paranoid circles.

He distances himself further, pulling his hand slowly from Mudah's grasp and he just about manages to get to his feet without stumbling over. His hand-eye co-ordination is completely shot and his vision swims just a little once he's stood up. "I have to...I have to go." He heads for the door then, slowly, because if he goes any quicker than he'll fall over and he won't be able to leave.

And he needs to leave because Mudah deserves someone better than him. Someone nice, who won't have to cheat on his wife, and who won't turn up at his apartment a drunken mess at 3 o'clock in the morning because he fucked _everything_ up. He's gone from having a wife, two kids, a home, and a lover to having just the lover, and while the lover isn't bad at all - he's fucking wonderful, in fact - he deserves better than Hugh.

\- - - - - - - -

His hands slip from his’, like water.

Later, when he finds himself smoking something stronger, he chastises himself for not going after him. For being so weak that he hadn’t dared stand up from his spot and refused him to leave the safety of his apartment and his embrace. He’s a grown man, he tells himself. Nothing you could’ve done.

But when he watches him stand and drunkenly stumble to the door, all he can do is sit there and watch his retreating shape. He’s hunched with the weight of sorrow. When he is no longer in his line of sight, Mudah’s breaths quicken until he feels like he can’t breathe at all. He closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself, counting, but the numbers make no sense and only worsen reality. He _left_. He left him. And he can’t deal with that.

There’s more than sex, for Mudah. He’s only afraid to admit it because he’s not certain it’s the same for Hugh. But he holds his hand with care, and he cooks for him, and he talks and talks and for a while, it feels like there is nothing to worry about. Like those little needles that constantly poke and provoke his insecurities are taken away and replaced by a calming balm. His lips on his skin. Fucking _idiot_.

Mudah gasps for air, ignores the tears in his eyes, and stands. If this was love, then- he doesn’t want it right now. He wants to be numb.

That night, he doesn’t sleep. He goes to work in the morning, but no one notices the dark circles under his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over a week later.

The very next morning, Hugh calls into the office to tell them he won't be in for while. He's asked how long for, and he says 'indefinitely'. Because he doesn't know how long this is going to take, he doesn't know how long he's going to need to get used to this. Right now, he has nothing. Not even Mudah, because it's easier that way. It's easier to disconnect entirely because he feels like he has a disconnect with himself, and he's not in a good place right now. It's not fair to put his worries on anyone else's shoulders, regardless of what kind of personal relationship they have.

He books himself into a hotel, because he's obviously not going to kick her and the kids out of the house. Even though it's his house, and he owns it, he's not going to send her back to her parents. It's not fair on her - because she's done absolutely nothing wrong here - and it's not fair on the kids. They already don't understand what's going on, why Daddy hasn't come home yet, it's not fair to completely uproot them when they have school, and friends, and a life.

He doesn't work, he can't bring himself to do anything actually. Mainly he sleeps, catching up on what feels like years of missed hours, or he drinks until he passes out, and he's fine with that, until he gets a phone call.

' _Get your ass back in, we've got a situation._ ' He says he doesn't care what the situation is, it's not his problem right now. ' _It's your damn problem because your department is a goddamn shambles. Get back here and fix it._ '

So he doesn't have much of a choice really, because he knows Phillips will fire him without hesitation if he doesn't get the creative department back up to standard. It's almost flattering, really, how things fall apart when he's not there, but it also means that he obviously needs to make some changes. Bring in people who _can_ cope when he's not around.

\- - - - - - - -

It’s been days. More than a week.

The tip of the pencil breaks when it comes into contact with paper. He sighs, and stands up to sharpen it. He’s done this four times already, and it isn’t even lunch break yet. The building is hectic. Hugh’s absence results in chaos, everyone fumbling with scraps of work that would surely earn his disapproval, if only he was there to see it. Johnson lost some baby clothes label because he slept with the wrong woman. Adler is ill. So he’s all alone, in their little office, and he hasn’t stopped working.

Which is fine. It distracts him. It’s work.

Someone tells him he needs to start over, because the woman in the picture is brunette, and they want a blond girl. It’s fine. It’s work.

And then that Stanley asshole shows up in his office, for some reason. He’s looking him up and down, with that little smirk that makes Mudah’s heart race, and not in a good way. He asks something, and he responds. Politely. Maybe curtly. He’s not in the mood.

“I don’t like your tone, Nassar. Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? Your little crush isn’t here to pull your leash, but _I_ am, so you better treat me with respect. Fucking queer.”

Mudah drops the pencil and punches him.

The next thing he knows is that there’s someone holding him back, because the guy shouted and whined loud enough for the people in the adjoining offices to hear. Mudah is kicking at him, and Stanley is spitting and cursing and throwing kicks too. In the end, it’s something the whole agency will talk about. And Mudah... doesn’t care. At least not now. He’s sunk this low. It can’t get any worse.

\- - - - - - - -

The first thing he does when he gets back is _not_ deal with a goddamn fist fight. Especially not one that concerns Mudah, because that means they're going to have to talk. He's going to pissed off, Hugh knows that, and he doesn't blame him. They haven't spoken in over a week, and he just up and left with no further contact, so things have pretty much gone to shit.

He has Stanley in his office first, because it's easier that way. It's easier to have to deal with someone he doesn't give a shit about, someone who throws racial slurs when they get pissed off, and get that out of the way, because it gives him time to prepare. And yet when he asks his secretary to call Mudah into his office, he still doesn't know what he wants to say. He has no fucking clue, and as he sits there, waiting, his finds that his brain isn't providing him with anything other than ' _I'm sorry_ '.

But ' _I'm sorry_ ' isn't good enough, and he knows that for a fact. Hell, if he was Mudah, he wouldn't forgive himself either.  

\- - - - - - - -

He hears Hugh’s back from one of the secretaries. His name slips into her conversation, and he’s not surprised at all.

His first reaction is to be hopeful. And then, because _that_ night crashes back onto him, he finds he doesn’t want to see him. Not just yet.

When his secretary calls him in, he tells her he’s going to the bathroom first. He does, and he lights up a cigarette and wishes it was something else. That the floor would swallow him and spit him out _anywhere_ but where he’s supposed to be.

So he takes his time, maybe a little spiteful of him to make him wait; it’s a message, one he is going to repeat anyways, because then he walks to his office. And sees him.

Mudah wants to kiss him. He wants to punch him, too. But that’s probably not a good idea anymore. He still has a sloppy bandage around his knuckle from where his fist connected against Stanley’s face. To see him sporting the bruise brings him a little satisfaction, if he’s honest. He hasn’t heard _that_ word leave his lips again.

He closes the door anyways, despite the secretary’s tiny protest. And he stands where he stood, all those months ago, except there is no lust in his eyes. There’s desire, yes. But there is also... anger. Deep and undeniable sadness.

“You wanted to see me, Mr. Bennett?”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh lifts his head as his door opens, and he sees Mudah for the first time in a week. He looks good, of course he looks good, because it directly mirrors how Hugh feels right now. And it only serves to make him feel like _more_ shit than he already does. He knows that he looks tired, because even though he's spent the majority of the past week sleeping, he doesn't feel rested whatsoever.

He stubs out his cigarette in his ashtray, in a decisive movement, and leaves the butt where it is. "Please, take a seat." He gestures to the chair opposite, because he wants Mudah to sit so that they can talk. They need to talk about this, about what happened, but they also just need to... _Talk_. If it wasn't for the fact that he's his boss, Hugh doubts that Mudah would even have turned up in his office at all.

He doesn't like that he calls him 'Mr. Bennett'. It feels too informal now, like when Mudah says it, it doesn't even sound like his name. But they're at work, and he supposes that he probably should in case someone is listening outside the door.

"We need to talk about what happened."

He's not specific about it. He could be talking about what happened with Stanley, or he could be talking about what happened with _them_. Either way, he knows that they need to talk about both, and he _wants_ to, damnit. He just doesn't know if he can.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh looks fine, which irritates him a little more -there’s a nastier side of him that wants to see him miserable for leaving, one he quickly stomps on because he _looks_ okay. Last he saw him he wanted nothing more than that, didn’t he?

But looks are deceiving. He knows this better than anyone, he thinks. Mudah watches him put his cigarette out, falters and finally decides to step closer. He takes slow and deliberate steps, until he is seated on the chair that will make Hugh look at him directly in the eye. Not that he can meet it. But it’s motivation for himself.

He wants to reach out, grab his hand, and never let go. Instead he folds them in his lap; his jaw shifting slightly as he struggles to speak. This close to him, but with work and a week of missing time between them.

“I suppose you’ll be firing me now. I won’t apologise for what I did,” and he surprises himself with his words, his eyes widening slightly. “But. If I must. I’m willing to reconsider.”

\- - - - - - - -

He shakes his head, holding a hand up to stop him from talking. "I don't want you to apologise," he tells him, and really, he doesn't. That's not why he asked him in here. "And you're not fired." He's pretty quick to tell him that, because he doesn't think that he can stand the idea of Mudah sitting there, agonising over this.

Or maybe he's not. Maybe he wants out, but he doesn't want to quit and lose out on his severance pay, so he found a way to get himself fired instead. Of course, the agency won't pay him severance pay for getting fired because of an assault, and he'd know that, right? So maybe that's not it either.

"I fired Stanley." He shouldn't tell him that, but it feels right. Mudah is, after all, the one who's going to be most affected by it. Stanley had protested, of course, but Hugh reminded him that he didn't give a shit what kind of slurs he used out in the street, he didn't bring them into the office. It's not that kind of building, and it's not the kind of work environment that he's trying to cultivate, especially amongst members of the same department. Plus, he'd told him, his attitude was shitty and his work was sub-par, and that was reason enough to fire him.

If it had been any other week, Stanley might have gotten away with a forced absence for a few weeks, just until it all died down, but Hugh has had the mother of all weeks, and he's not here to fuck around. "I get why you did what you did, but I need to be seen to be doing something. So I'm giving you two week's paid vacation. You can work from home, if you want, but it's probably best to get out of here for a little while."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is being bombarded by information he can barely digest. Stanley is fucking fired, which he’s extremely grateful for. He deserved it; the secretaries wore looks of utter discomfort when he was around. He called him things. His job? Not impressive, but he hung out with the right people, so he thought himself a god. It makes him wonder if any of his friends will retaliate, but he doubts they were true friends at all.

He’s not getting fired, which admittedly _is_ a relief. He still sends money to his parents, despite their protests, because though they might not need it as much as they once did he is still their son, and they love him, no matter what. Plus- well, it’s hard to find a job. Even harder to find one where he gets to look at Hugh every day.

Which brings him to his next point. And that is that he is talking to Hugh again. As if nothing happened. They have to; this is no place to discuss the last time they kissed or they held hands. No other coworker asks their boss about their kids the way Mudah would— with genuine concern for them and for him, mostly. The way people show each other that they would help, in any way. Because they love them.

Mudah finds himself smiling, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Not yet. But it’s a start. “Two weeks is a long time. I’ll get bored with just work.”

It’s an invitation, if he wants to take it. To go visit, maybe. Mostly to return to him. _Please._

\- - - - - - - -

His fingers twitch a little as he finds himself wanting to reach for another cigarette, even though he's only just put one out. He's started smoking more, he's noticed that, though it's more of a comfort thing than anything else. A crux to rely on, so that he can have something to do with his hands. But he refrains, for now, because if he moves his hands from where they're folded in his lap - mirroring Mudah, always fucking mirroring him with even realising he's doing it - then maybe he'll see the slight shake to them that comes from alcohol withdrawal.

He hasn't had a drink in two days, because he knows that he can't turn up to work drunk, not when he's been gone for a week. But he also knows that if he has one, that one will turn into many more, because that's just where he's at right now. So it's easier to quit cold turkey and put himself through it, than to risk fucking up his work even further.

"I'm sure you'll find something to do," he says, because he isn't going to accept the invite. Mainly because he's not sure that the invite is even _there_. Mudah's words are laced with slight innuendo, an almost coy flirtation of an idea that maybe, if Hugh finds the time, he could drop by and stop him from being so bored.

God, this all seems so fucking wrong. They didn't talk to each other like this before, not even at work. Because they could still be friendly here, in the privacy of Hugh's office. The room is pretty soundproof, you'd have to have your ear up against the door to actually hear anything and no-one would get away with doing that in the middle of the day. Not with his secretary around, and she wouldn't dare think about trying it because she knows he'd send her packing without any hesitation, no matter how good of a secretary that she is. "You still have that TV, don't you?"

\- - - - - - - -

Okay, so maybe the message didn’t get across. Or maybe it did and it was too bold for Hugh, which he understands. But, for all his anger, he needs to see him. Not for sex, though Mudah is no one to deny him or himself that. But it’s the last thing on his mind right now. Right now he just wants to _talk_.

He slumps back on the chair, creating even more space between them. He looks around the office. Still the same but so very different since that night. His tongue flicks out to wet his lips, and he bites on them to keep himself from saying anything more that he won’t understand, or that he will deem too bold for the workplace.

“... Yes, yes I do. Why?” What’s he getting at? Mudah fiddles with his thumbs, settling his gaze on the stack of papers on the desk. They have yet to be signed by him. He should leave. He has to catch up on a week’s worth of work.

He swallows, leans in close, and murmurs in a soft yet deep voice: “You. Should. Come.”

\- - - - - - - -

Message received, loud and clear.

It's not often that he sees this side of Mudah, maybe he's seen it a couple of times at most, usually when something's not going his way and he's beyond the point of ignoring that he wants it. It's interesting, because it's not _him_ , yet at the same time it so very fundamentally _is_.

God, he's close enough now that Hugh could just lean in and kiss him, if he wanted to. And he absolutely _does_ want to, so that's exactly what he does.

He's on his feet, hands gripping the edge of his desk as he leans across it to press their lips firmly together. It's been just over a week since they last kissed. More than that, actually, because they hadn't kissed that night, and the last time he'd been at Mudah's before that was a few days prior, so it's probably closer to two weeks. At any rate, it's two weeks too long, and Hugh's knuckles are white with how hard he's gripping the desk to keep himself from going any further than just a kiss.

\- - - - - - - -

He is desperate. It feels like it’s been longer than a week, and it frustrated him that Hugh hadn’t quite understood what he meant only moments before. So he leans close to his desk, and he can’t stop wondering about the bags under Hugh’s eyes, the smell of hotel soap and shampoo. They’re really close, but he doesn’t think much of it.

Until he sees Hugh move closer, and– he could’ve moved back. Refused him a kiss because he has _no_ right to do that to him after the week he put him through, and because it’s in the middle of a workday and sunlight creeps through Hugh’s windows. Outside, the little tunes of typing machines and murmurs of people. He could’ve swerved out of the way.

Except Hugh surprised him, and he doesn’t want to move.

Mudah’s eyes widen in utter surprise, and then he parts his lips and kisses him back. Oh, and it feels like he’s found the little piece of himself that’s been missing all along, except it’s not insignificant at all, rather a half of him that he doesn’t really need to survive, but he wants it to live in peace. It’s been too long. He doesn’t want it to be too long again.

It makes him wonder how deep this goes, for both of them. But he has to stop thinking about this. Has to stop kissing him. He tilts his head up, closes his eyes, and slowly exhales a shaky breath. _I missed you_.

\- - - - - - - -

His world is silent, as though his office is shrouded in liquid black that drowns out every other noise except for the beating of his pulse in his eardrums. And then the kiss is broken, and everything comes rushing back in one solid wave of noise; phones ringing, typewriter keys clacking, someone laughs at a joke that they don't find funny.

It's disorientating, so much so that he doesn't even think about what he says next. It falls out of his mouth, a subconscious thought that he hadn't even known that he'd wanted to vocalise, and yet must have done on some deep, emotional level, because he can't stop himself from saying it.

"I love you."

And there it is. The reason he'd distanced himself so far and for so long had all been because of this. Because love, in its purest form, is scary, and he doesn't want to be accused of rebounding because that's not what this is. It aches in his chest with a ferocity that's akin to a heart attack, tightening until he feels like he's going to pass out. It had been building and building over the three months that they'd spent together until he finally snapped.

It pushed him to leave his wife and his family, and he'd panicked, doubted himself, but he can't doubt it anymore. Not when Mudah kisses him back so readily, so hungrily. There's no doubt in him now.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh’s world keeps going, and Mudah’s freezes.

He loves him.

Mudah isn’t avoiding his gaze any longer. He can’t. Piercing green eyes stare at Hugh; maybe it’s a joke, but far too cruel and Hugh would never. It’s no joke. It’s in his gaze. He says he loves him and he feels like resigning right there and then because he is untouchable for he is king of the world, and he is fulfilled, and he is melting on his spot. Nothing feels real anymore. Nothing but Hugh.

For once in his life there are no fears, no paranoia. How easily he could show up again and bring light to his life. He had thought this to be only his perception. To have it reciprocated in equal fashion makes him lightheaded. Hugh has snatched his breath through the kiss. He can keep it. He can keep his heart, too.

“I love you too, habibi.”

Is this why he’d left his family? The life he thought his’? Mudah is panicking because Hugh was given up so much. For him. It’s not panic, he laughs at himself, it’s _love_. He presses another kiss to his lips, fleeting and gentle as a butterfly’s touch.

He wants the day to be over so they can leave, and go to his apartment, and talk about this and everything and nothing at all. He doesn’t want to move, but he doesn’t think this moment will ever end. It’s only beginning.

\- - - - - - - -

He says it back, and after a kiss that's too chaste, Hugh doesn't hesitate to move around his desk so that he can take Mudah in his arms and just... _Hold_ him. Be close to him, as much as he can be right now without drawing too much attention to them.

Fingers push lightly through the back of his hair, finding gentle purchase in places they'd settled once before. Another hand rests on Mudah's lower back, almost anchoring in his place as Hugh just breathes him in, getting used to his scent again after going without it for so long.

Which is ridiculous, really, because it's been two weeks since they've been close like this, that's all. But two weeks now feels like an eternity to him as this moment stretches on longer than it should.

"Go home," he tells him. "Start your vacation. I'll be there in two hours."

It seems like too long of a time, like he doesn't want to spend five more minutes without him, but they need to be careful here. If they leave together, that'll arouse too much suspicion. And if Hugh leaves first, that'll give Mudah no excuse to leave early. So he has to go first, because he can go straight from the office and just leave.


	4. Chapter 4

He goes home. When he closes the door behind him, he takes a moment to breathe and lean against the door. He’s been feeling like he’s floating on a cloud ever since he left the building. Feigning anger at being kicked out for two weeks has never been harder. It’s an award-worthy performance, he thinks.

The neighbour hears him laughing and thinks he must be high.

It’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. And it’s probably a little silly; he is not a teenager but an adult. Yet, he thinks men like him don’t really get a shot at this happiness in a world that so openly hates them. He is absolutely and unabashedly going to bask in the warmth that is Hugh. His words and his touch and his existence alone. He allows himself this much.

He’s drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette by the time he hears the clinking of keys outside his door. It’s something they’ve done hundreds of times before. But it feels just a bit new. Different. There’s still much to talk about, but for now he’s content in knowing he has two weeks of paid leave, and he hopes he can share some of it with him.

\- - - - - - - -

"Natalie, I'm leaving for the day. If Mr. Phillips asks, I'll be back tomorrow morning."

" _Yes, Mr. Bennett._ "

He gets to Mudah's apartment earlier than he expected, and he's glad that he remembered to grab his keys from his office desk drawer. He kept them, of course he did, because first of all, he hasn't been in the office to pick them up. But secondly, because he couldn't face the idea of their time apart not being temporary.

When he steps into the apartment, he drops his briefcase down by the door, allowing it to click shut behind himself as he takes off his hat and coat, hanging them up on the coat rack by the door. Admittedly, he's stalling for time just a little, because he's a little nervous. It was all well and good whilst they were in his office, because it's where he feels most at home right now. It's _his_ space, and now he's in Mudah's space. He shouldn't be nervous, he has no need to be and he knows that, but he can't help those nerves from creeping up on him just a little.

Finally, he turns to face his love - _his love_ , because he said that, and he goddamn meant it - and just seeing him here again, even after the circumstances surrounding the reason he was here last time, makes his heart flutter in his chest.

"Hello."

\- - - - - - - -

He turns his head just in time to see him put the coat and the hat away. He’s sitting on his couch, legs extended in front of him, back hunched– he’s relaxed, though he straightens up once Hugh is nearby. He knows it’s bad for his posture, and Hugh has told him to change it, so he tries. It’s hard, but it seems to be working nowadays.

“Hey,” Mudah says, and the greeting feels natural, though he thinks he’s nervous, but he shouldn’t be. He breathes out the smoke from the cigarette, which is almost finished, but not quite, then tilts his head. It’s hard to not just leap out of the couch and into his arms. He wants to, but he doesn’t want to be too overwhelming. He doesn’t want to rush because they have all the time in the world.

Still, he stands up, and softly smiles at him. “You want anything?”

\- - - - - - - -

That's an absolutely loaded question, and Hugh doesn't want to answer it just yet. There any many things he wants, both right now and in the long-term, and it would be too much to unpack all of that right now. Mudah probably just wanted to know if he wanted a drink, or something like that, but it holds a deeper meaning for him.

Instead of answering, he approaches Mudah, loosening his tie before popping the top button of his shirt. He could linger on this nervousness he feels, and allow it to consume him whole, or he can embrace what they now have and fall headfirst into it instead. "Yes," he says finally. "I do."

So he does that, he allows himself to throw himself fully into this, his arm loosely wrapping around Mudah's waist so that he can pull him close, their bodies flush together. "I want you," he tells him, voice low in his throat as he now leans down to kiss him slowly, deeply, as though this is the last thing in the world that he'll ever do.

\- - - - - - - -

Oh.

He doesn’t expect him to be like this, but he doesn’t push him away, doesn’t complain. Because it _has_ been a while since they touched each other like that; since he’s heard that deep lilt to his voice that means he truly, unequivocally, _wants him_. It sends a shiver down his spine.

He kisses him back, closes his eyes almost right away because he wants to focus on his taste and the sensation of rough lips on his’. The cigarette he holds away, but it’s nearly burning his fingers.

So he pulls back to take a drag of it, turning his head away. He turns back and his eyes roam over Hugh’s face, as if he’s seeing him for the very first time. Maybe he is. Hugh is throwing himself onto him, onto a life so new and maybe terrifying but he has him, does he not? It makes Mudah smile again.

And when he leans in close to kiss him, he exhales the cigarette smoke into his open mouth. Measured, so that he doesn’t choke on it; his own breath so careful that he feels like everything else has slowed down, too.

“You have me. I’m yours,” he murmurs with adoration. And he drops the cigarette to the floor, and puts it down with the tip of his shoe.

\- - - - - - - -

As Mudah kisses him again, he feels the hot smoke flow into his mouth. It burns his tongue and leaves a smoky taste in the back of his throat, and he pulls back a little so that he can exhale what little is left in his mouth by the time Mudah is finished.

He waits for him to drop his cigarette, making sure that it's stubbed out fully before he kisses him again. His free hand comes up to lightly take hold of Mudah's chin between his thumb and index finger, holding it gently in place as he allows himself to explore his mouth, like they're getting to know each other again, like he doesn't know what every single inch of him looks and tastes like, like they hadn't spent months doing just _this_.

It takes very little effort to turn the both of them, so that Hugh can seat himself on the sofa, pulling Mudah down into his lap. His hands settle on his lover's hips, thumbs press lightly against his hipbones to once again hold him in place. He sits back just a little, back against the sofa cushions, as he lets his eyes travel slowly down Mudah's body in undisguised lust.

They drag back up to his mouth, and Hugh tilts his head to the side for just a moment, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he thinks of just what he wants to do with that mouth. But not right now, that's for later. He meets Mudah's eyes again now, head falling back against the sofa cushions and he shifts his stance, legs parting just a little, hips rolling upwards ever so slightly in the process.

"You're mine," his grip on Mudah's hips tightens just a little as he says this. Not hard enough to bruise - not yet, anyway - but hard enough to say that he's for sure staking a claim here.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah settles a leg on each side of him, content with being on his lap, with the knowledge that he’s in a vulnerable position and Hugh could take advantage of it if he wanted to. It’s a fact at this point, one that stirs that little flame within him, and he shivers once again.

He’s being observed. So he might as well give him something to watch. Tentatively he reaches up to his shirt, pops a button and tilts his head back just enough to give him a glimpse of his neck. But then he rolls his hips, and his hand falls to Hugh’s shoulder to hold onto something.

Because he might as well fall back with what he says next.

Mudah’s eyes widen slightly. He’s being claimed. And he was willing to give himself a few moments ago, but to hear it from him _definitely_ pikes his interest. He tilts his head so he can look at him when he nods, when he arches his back just enough to agree with him. To offer himself. “I’m yours,” he says again, “and I want you to take me.”

\- - - - - - - -

Yeah, he is absolutely being claimed, and Hugh's not ashamed of that. And why should he be? Mudah seems into it, and Hugh is _more_ than happy to say things like that if it's going to get him off a little easier. If it's something that's going to help them get off together.

"Stand up. Take your clothes off for me," he instructs. Because it would be easy enough to get Mudah naked on his own, but it's much nicer to watch him. He can see it now, Mudah stripping for him, slowly, as he sits there fully clothed and just observes. He'll have Mudah in his lap, bared completely for him, his skin brushing against the rough fabric of Hugh's trousers.

Yeah, he likes the idea of that a lot.

"Stand right there, in front of me, and take these off." He reaches up to tug lightly at Mudah's shirt, before popping one of the buttons for him. "Nice and slow."

\- - - - - - - -

He’s confused for a split second until he tells him to undress. No, not tells him. He orders him to. And though there’s a part of him that wants to rebel, that wants to se what he’s willing to do to get him to do what he wants, the command sounds like a good idea.

He thinks it’s not fair that Hugh gets to sit back, that he gets to be fully dressed. But. He stands anyways, their knees bumping against each other as he slowly reaches up for his tie.

It’s nowhere near as nice as the ones Hugh often wears around his neck. But it still slides off rather easily, so he can move to his shirt. Button per button, he keeps his eyes on Hugh, until he can peel it off. Undershirt too. It’s not cold. Still the hairs of his arm stand when his hands trail to his belt.

_Do you like it?_

He’s hesitant, only because he’s not certain if he should take a little longer or not. It’s fine, though, because he gets to watch him watching him, and he feels himself press against the fabric of his underwear in anticipation. It’s mostly the thought of Hugh, not the act itself. Though, he admits, he is liking it. Very much.

He takes everything off. Even his socks. He is bare for him, but not just physically. He’s _bare_ for him.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh stretches his arms out along the length of the back of the sofa, eyes fixed firmly on Mudah as he undresses for him. He can't take his eyes off of him, in fact. And with every piece of clothing that comes off, Hugh finds himself getting more and more aroused. He feels like he should be smoking a cigarette right now.

His hand comes down so that he can palm himself a little through his trousers, because he needs Mudah to know how much he's enjoying this. He needs Mudah to see that he isn't just watching this, that he's actively involved here.

And now he's standing there, completely naked - in more ways than one - in front of him, and he doesn't know what to do with himself. So he makes an executive condition that he's not going to do anything with just himself, because tonight is all about _them_. It's all about the two of them coming together - again, in more ways than one - and just being... _Them_.

"Look at you." His voice is barely there, a quiet growl that betrays his arousal. Once again, his eyes roam over Mudah's entire body, and he lets out a shaky exhale. This isn't where he'd expected this to go when he'd made the suggestion that they both head back here in his office earlier, but he's glad that this is where it ended up.

With the hand that he'd been using to palm himself, he gestures for Mudah to come closer, to get back onto his lap again. "Come here."

\- - - - - - - -

Bastard. He’s touching himself and not him, though it pains him to admit that he is very much enjoying the sight of Hugh. He tilts his head and clenches his jaw, because he wants to see him naked too. Badly.

But he kicks his pants out of the way and returns to his position: sitting on his lap, where he is meant to be, where suddenly he feels Hugh pressing beneath him. That can’t be comfortable. He keeps his eyes fixed on his lips, even when he reaches down and touches him through his pants.

“What do you want me to do now,” he asks, though he’s licking his lips as if he’s already thinking of several things he could do with his mouth. “What do you want to do to me, _habibi_?”

It’s a word he’s called him before once, at the office. He hasn’t told what it means, and he can explain if he asks. He means it. He says it with his heart, just the way he loves him.

He presses their foreheads together, their noses, and then he kisses him. There’s pressure building within him, but tenderness too; he wants it, and wants to show him that he means all of this. He loves him. He wants to give himself to him. The sooner, the better.

\- - - - - - - -

This does feel like it's where he's meant to be, naked or not, it feels right. He'd be content with having Mudah sitting in his lap at all times, calling him habibi.

 _Habibi_.

He doesn't know what the word means, but he doesn't really need to know. He doesn't need to know the exact meaning because he understands the context behind it. The way that Mudah says it is _everything_ , and it conveys well enough what _he_ means by it.

"I want you," he starts. "I want you spread out on this sofa, underneath me, at my complete mercy. I want to undo you, totally and wholly, until you can't speak. Until you're trying to beg for more but you can't." He settles his hands on Mudah's thighs, sliding them slowly upwards, but stopping before he gets anywhere even close to his cock. "Is that okay? Or do you need me to tell you a little more?"

He doesn't smirk, even though he wants to. He gives him a completely serious look, because he _is_ serious about this. He wants to let Mudah know just how much he's missed this, and how much he's missed _having_ him.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah’s breath hitches, it’s stuck in his throat and he can’t bring himself to say anything. What could he possibly say anyway? He wants that. He wants to be fucked until he can’t walk and until there is no distinction between him and Hugh; until they’ve spent enough time together for them to forget what it’s like to be apart from each other.

He’s made his point. He can agree on this.

And yet.

He grabs his shirt and begins unbuttoning it, until his chest and the hairs he loves to touch so much are beneath the palm of his hand. He threads his fingers across them, thinks he can feel his pulse, or maybe it’s his own, it makes no difference. He lifts his hips slightly, the fabric of his shirt brushing against him.

“I want to hear _more_ , and I want you to do _more_.”

\- - - - - - - -

His eyes drop low, as he watches Mudah unbutton his shirt, as Mudah finally touches his skin, and there's the contact he'd been desiring for weeks. He dreamt about it sometimes, to the point where he'd woken up hard, and frustrated, with a desperate need to call him just to hear his voice to help him get off.

But he doesn't need to now, because Mudah is here with him, and he looks good enough to fucking eat. He wants him to do more? He'll do more.

He hooks an arm around his waist and shifts the both of him so that he has Mudah underneath him on the sofa. He takes the opportunity to manoeuvre out of his shirt, throwing it aside, before he leans down to steal a kiss from Mudah. Just a chaste one, because he's not done talking yet.

"I'm going to take you apart with my hands." He trails one hand slowly down Mudah's torso, fingers dragging against his skin. "Bit by bit, inch by inch, I'm going to make you mine. Tonight, every part of you belongs to me." When he kisses him again, his teeth catch hold of Mudah's lower lip, just for a moment. "You're mine."

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh reacts how he wants him to. It would make anyone wonder if he’s following whatever he says or if he’s sneaky enough to have him do what he wants. He likes to think it’s neither. They both desire each other, and hunger for this; enough that the mere weight of Hugh, shirtless and eager, on top of him makes him laugh breathlessly.

Because Hugh is serious, but his happiness is unparalleled. He thinks himself so fucking blessed when Hugh kisses him. _He_ is his blessing.

He lifts his hips and his chest to meet him halfway there, and when he loses he opens his mouth, willing and submissive, and looks at him through thick lashes. He still grins, especially wicked when he reaches down to slip a hand down Hugh’s trousers and cup him with skilled hand. He’s missed him. So badly.

“I give everything I am to you,” and the statement feels loaded, but it’s fine, because he means it. “You want me, you have me. I am yours, and you are mine.” He cups his cheek as he hisses quietly: “I want you to _fuck_ me until I give out, Hugh.”


	5. Chapter 5

It takes another month for his wife to finally let him see his kids. Maybe he turns up at the house a couple of times when he knows they're at school, just so she'll talk to him and it doesn't seem like he's trying to guilt her into it by letting the kids see him. As much as he knows that would work, he's not that kind of guy. He would never use their kids against her. She doesn't let him into the house, doesn't even open the door to him.

But the phone rings one afternoon - he'd been open with her, told her that he was seeing someone, and that he'd be living with him, and that's the number she'd have to call if she ever changed her mind and wanted to get into contact with him - and he leans over Mudah to reach the phone; because even though it's his apartment, Mudah looks too comfortable in his lap to move to get it.

"Hello?" He hears her voice, and he sits up a little more, possibly disturbing Mudah in the process. "Yes, of course. Of course I do. I'll pick them up." She then says something, which causes him to stiffen slightly. "...Yes, he is, if that's okay with you." A pause. "Yes, I am." Another pause, longer this time. "...Yes. I do." And then he relaxes. "Okay, I'll be there in an hour. Thank you."

He leans over Mudah again to set the phone back down into the cradle, before slumping back against the couch. "...Holy shit."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is reading a magazine and his head rests on Hugh’s lap when he receives the call. He doesn’t think it’s important because no one is supposed to be calling in at all; he spoke to his mother just a few hours ago so it can’t be her. It’s no one from work because no one calls him anyways.

It’s a surprise when Hugh answers and it’s obvious whoever is on the other side _knows_ him. He doesn’t think there’s a lot of people who call his number to reach Hugh. If there’s any at all.

When he hangs up he sits up, reluctantly, dragging a hand over his hair because he’s been laying there long enough for his hair to look a little tousled. He’s _very_ curious. He looks at him with a raised eyebrow. “What? What is it?”

\- - - - - - - -

He looks down at Mudah, reaching over to brush some hair out of his eyes. "We need to get dressed. Debbie's letting me see the kids." He realises that this is the first time that he's actually mentioned his wife's name out loud, but things feel different now. It almost seems like she's actively supporting him, and that she _wants_ him to be happy.

"We're taking them to the park." He leans in to kiss him quick, a loving peck, before he gets up from the sofa and heads through to the bedroom. "Come and get dressed!" He calls through, and the sheer _excitement_ in his voice could be bottled up and sold as a cure for depression.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah blinks, and stares, and blinks again.

There’s a name he can pin down to his wife, but somehow that’s not what is relevant here. It’s that for the first time in weeks, Hugh gets to see his children, and the look of utter _joy_ in his face lights up the entire apartment. It makes _him_ excited.

And terrified.

This means Debbie, the mother of Hugh’s children, knows his phone number, and therefore he’s being included in this so he gets to meet them. And he is in no way uncomfortable around children. He likes them, even when their sincerity can be a little rough. But these are his kids, and what if they don’t like him? What if he fucks up so terribly he makes them cry and go to his mother and tell her what a horrible man he is? What if they _hate_ him–

Mudah stands up and rushes for a cigarette before he even ventured inside the bedroom to grab an iron pair of pants and a nice vest. No, not a vest, it’s a walk in the park, not a business meeting. A sweater? Maybe. He’s biting on the inside of his cheeks when he turns and looks at Hugh. “Wh- I’m-“

He smiles nervously. “What should I wear?”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh looks across at him from where he's currently buttoning up a white shirt. He's already changed into a pair of dark brown slacks, which he loosely tucks his shirt into. "Just wear what you normally wear when you're not at work." He doesn't care what Mudah wears, and he knows that his kids won't either. Debbie, however, is a completely different story, but if she's going to judge him on what he's wearing, then she may as well get to see the authentic style of Mudah Nassar.

"Anything is fine, honestly. It's just an afternoon in the park."

It's a lot more than just an afternoon in the park. It's the first time his kids are going to meet his boyfriend, and that's a sentence he never thought that he'd be saying. He doesn't think they'll understand, and they'll probably think he's just a friend; he doubts Debbie will have explained it to them, despite how supportive she seems to be being right now. Plus, it's easier if they don't know, because it's like likely that they'll say something to someone who shouldn't be told.

He approaches Mudah so that he can kiss him again, softly this time, with a little more feeling than the chaste one he'd bestowed in the living room. "You're gonna be fine, okay?"

\- - - - - - - -

It’s _not_ just an afternoon in the park and Hugh must know this, but he says nothing to contradict him and instead focuses on his very limited and very shabby wardrobe.

He’s never truly cared about clothing, aside from their functionality, but now that he’s with Hugh he finds himself fantasising about looking as refined as he does. And he also looks at suits and coats that he would never afford, in a million years, but he wonders if Hugh would like him even more in them so maybe someday he’ll give it a go. _Someday_ is a keyword here.

For now, he grabs a pair of slacks, a black shirt, and a grey cardigan with white and black stripes. It should do the trick. Maybe. Suddenly Hugh is leaning over and pressing a gentle kiss, and he responds to it. It helps a little. He’s right, he’s going to be fine. With Hugh at his side– how bad could it be, really?

“... Okay.”

(But he makes sure to take his cigarettes and a lighter with him, because he’s definitely going to need them, and exhales and hopes his hair doesn’t look too bad with the wind that is blowing outside).

“I’m ready,” he says, “I think.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh grabs a sweater from a drawer that sits in the bottom of Mudah's wardrobe; a dark blue cashmere that should clash with the burnt orange pants he's wearing, but that doesn't. He knows his colours, and to be honest, because of that, it's probably pretty fitting that he ended up queer.

He turns to look at Mudah once more, after running a comb through his hair in the mirror. He doesn't go for his usual partially slicked back style, instead opting for a gentle wave in his fringe, which flops down onto his forehead just a little. Smart casual, that's the look he's going for here.

"You look..." He moves back over to him again, giving him the once over before he nods, satisfied. "...very handsome," he finishes. He gives a slight tug on the hem of the cardigan, so that it rests a little better on Mudah's hips. "They're going to love you." Or so he hopes. He desperately wants them to. Right now, he doesn't want anything more than for two of the most important people in his love to fall as much in love with Mudah as he has.

"Come on, let's go."

 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s actually a really pretty day outside. Leaves on lush trees lazily sway over their heads, sunlight gently pouring across the park. There’s a handful of families nearby that are sharing lunch, their conversations only a pleasant buzz to remind them that they are not alone, even though he feels like they are.

They’re waiting for Debbie and the children to meet them by the pond. Mudah’s holding a cigarette between trembling fingers, but otherwise looks fine.

He wonders, somewhat bitterly, what it would be like if men like him were allowed to show their happiness like the couples holding hands and kissing and playing with their children. It’s a world he wasn’t lucky enough to be born in, but he hopes things change, eventually, for the better.

Because though he’s nervous about meeting Hugh’s family, he also finds himself craving what he has, all of a sudden. It’s odd– it’s a recent feeling that seems to be born out of their stability. It’s only augmented by this.

He takes another drag of the cigarette, distracted and staring at the ducks on the pond, that he doesn’t see them arrive. Not that he’d recognise them anyways.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh sees them the moment they arrive, though they don't see him yet. Apparently, as far as they're aware, they're just going to the park with Debbie, and she hasn't told them any different by the looks of it. When they finally spot him, they freeze in place for a few moments, and look at each other as though to confirm what they're seeing - it must be a twin thing, he thinks - before they look back to him.

" _Daddy!_ "

His breath catches in his throat and he gets up off of the bench that they're sitting on. They're running at him, both at the same time, and in a practiced manner, he manages to pick them both up at the same time, one in each arm, as he swings them around in a wide circle.

It's been a month, but it feels like so much longer, and even with that, it all comes back to him so easily, like he only saw them yesterday. He thinks it's interesting that it was the same with Mudah too, that he's slotted so easily into his life in an almost unconditional kind of way.

"If it isn't my favourite two troublemakers." He kisses each of them on the forehead, before setting them down at his feet. It's at that point that they notice Mudah, and shift a little closer to Hugh. He drops down onto his haunches, wrapping his arms around both of them and drawing them close. "Guys, this is Mudah. He's a really good friend of Daddy's." He hates that he has to say that, that he can't just _tell_ them. But they wouldn't understand, they're too young to understand, but there'll be time later on.

"Mudah, this is Kathryn and Michael." Kathryn seems to take the initiative, moving forwards to stick a hand out in Mudah's direction, apparently for him to shake. " _Nice to meet'cha_ ," she says brightly, and Michael follows suit, also sticking his hand out at him.

Hugh laughs softly, straightening up into a standing position as Debbie now reaches them. " _Afternoon, Hugh_." He leans down to kiss her cheek softly, friendly and amicable because he doesn't want the kids to think that they hate each other, especially because they don't. "Afternoon, Debbie."

\- - - - - - - -

Oh.

He’s– he’s lifting the children that ran full speed towards him, with unabashed _glee_ because they are clearly so happy to see him. That’s what he likes about the little people. They’re not afraid of showing what they think or feel. They’re smart, and Hugh’s children specifically are adorable. They look like him.

He puts the cigarette out and stands up, ready to be introduced and to introduce himself (as ready as he can be, anyway).

He falls in love with Kathryn, and then with Michael, in the blink of an eye. There’s the unpleasant little voice at the back of his mind telling him he does not belong here and that he will never know what it’s like to be a father, but he drowns it out, and he smiles at them. He crosses his hands and then shakes theirs with feigned seriousness, which makes them giggle a bit.

And then he looks at Debbie, and maybe he’s better off hiding behind the kids. He wants to get to know them, and he wants to play with them. Certainly more so than Debbie. But. He doesn’t want to be rude, so he lifts his gaze and forces himself to meet her eyes.

“Good afternoon.”

\- - - - - - - -

They look at each other as they giggle, before turning to each other and crossing their own hands over so that they can shake hands with each other like Mudah did to them. They then turn back to him, and just start giggling again, before deciding that they want to go and play now.

And now that the twins are done with Mudah, they both grab one of Hugh's hands each and drag him away so that he can watch them on the playground equipment. Which...Isn't exactly ideal, actually, because it leaves Mudah and Debbie alone.

He absolutely wanted them to meet, because his new love should definitely meet the mother of his children, especially if he wants Mudah to be involved in helping him raise the kids when he has them, but not like this. Not without him to be there as some sort of mediator because he doesn't want it to be awkward for Mudah. It's not fair to suddenly throw him in the deep end like this.

Debbie watches the twins pull Hugh away, and reaches into her bag for a pack of cigarettes. She takes one out of the packet, easing it gently into a small metal holder, so that she doesn't smear lipstick all over the end of the cigarette, before she holds the pack out to him. It's almost like a sort of peace offering, in a way, to show that she means him no ill will.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah laughs at the kids, already feeling himself grow fonder of them. Is that possible? To love someone so much that that love reaches to those who are a part of him too? Maybe it is. He won’t question it further.

Even so a sinking feeling settled in his stomach when he watches him leave, and he’s now standing next to Debbie, who is gorgeous- he doesn’t need to be straight to notice that. Hugh proves once again that he has taste, and honestly, he feels a little silly for doubting that. But he did, in a way, steal him from her, and maybe he starts feeling like a home-wrecker with each passing second. Was he Hugh’s mistress? Fuck.

He’s shaking. But then Debbie takes out a cigarette, and offers him one, and Mudah is dumbstruck. “Thank you,” he drawls in that characteristic way of his’; takes a cigarette and then takes out his lighter. If she is willing to do this, then the least he can do to reciprocate is light up her cigarette. It’s windy, so he cups the flame, and gets to look at her a little better.

“...For the cigarette. And for giving him this. He really missed them.”

\- - - - - - - -

Her hair falls over her eyes a little as she leans down to light her cigarette on the open flame he’s providing, brilliant red meeting warm orange-yellow, a few strands so close to being burnt before she lifts her head again and her hair falls back over her shoulders.

She regards him for a few moments, as she takes a slow drag of her cigarette, dark red lipstick meeting sterling silver as she inhales. When she exhales, the white smoke looks stark against her lips.

“They’ve missed him too.” Here, she looks a little abashed, eyes drifting over to the three of them where they are by the playground equipment - her eyes meet Hugh’s for a few moment, before his attention is demanded by Kathryn - and then they snap back to Mudah.

“I overreacted, to my shame...He can’t help what he is.” She stops, corrects herself. “He can’t help _who_ he is. It wasn’t fair of me to punish him by taking the kids away.” She looks back over at them again, sighing heavily as she does. “But you don’t want to know all this.”

\- - - - - - - -

What does she think of him? Will she ever tell him? If she chooses to brush it all under a carpet, he cannot say he will speak against it. Her life has come to an abrupt change, and frankly, he’d expected... something else. He shrinks a little under her gaze, but finds the taste of tobacco somewhat comforting. It’s familiar in a place so new to him.

Still– he admires her for this. To be with her children on her own, and to make the decisions she’s made, it couldn’t be easy. To accept him- them. People like her are rare.

“No, it’s alright,” Mudah breathes out. “I think... I think I do want to know this. And I think... I should apologise too. But- not for being myself. I don’t think I could ever do that.”

\- - - - - - - -

She shakes her head immediately as he tries to apologise. As far as she's aware, he has nothing to apologise for. It's not like he turned her husband gay, after all, as handsome as he seems to be. This was something that was always going to happen, if Hugh was going to be his authentic self, and if it wasn't him, it would be another handsome guy that turned his head.

"I don't want you to apologise," she tells him, turning her attention fully back to him. "You don't owe me any kind of apology. Hugh wouldn't make the decision lightly to end this marriage unless it was for someone he really cared for." If only to create a sense of stability for their kids, not through love for her. She knows that, and she's starting to become okay with that, because it's not _her_ that's the issue here. She still loves him, she thinks she always will, and he probably feels the same way about her.

But that doesn't matter, because sometimes love isn't enough, and sometimes you love someone more. She wouldn't demand that Hugh stay with her just because she doesn't want to get divorced, because that wouldn't be fair on either of them. "Do you love him?" She asks suddenly, because she already knows Hugh's answer, and now she wants to hear Mudah's side of it.

\- - - - - - - -

He felt like he did, but now that it’s out in the air, well. He’s grateful to her, for everything so far. And he feels like he can breathe a little better. Maybe it’s the fresh air of the park.

Her question is, once again, a slap to the face. Everything about her shakes him to his very core. He thinks Hugh was very fortunate to have met a woman like her, and frankly, he feels silly for doubting a man like Hugh could ever be with someone... unlike her. So he is shaken, but he is calm.

His voice does not waver, and for once has that strength he does not show to strangers, because he is certain of his answer. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this sure about something, and that’s fine. He doesn’t need to be. He gets to be himself in front of her. “I do love him. With all my heart.”

He puts his hand in his pocket, straightens up a little, his eyes roam to Hugh and then to the children. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved someone like this before. He makes me happy. I- I understand why you do, too. Only, different,” obviously. He’s back to tripping over his own words, but not as bad as before.

He smiles; a lopsided grin that makes him look years younger than he is. “I promise I’m not like this all the time. I’m just... nervous, I guess. It’s all very new, right?”

\- - - - - - - -

She watches him, watches his body language as he looks over at Hugh playing with their kids. His smile says absolutely everything that she needs to know, even if he hadn't verbally said anything at all.

And she's been exactly where he is right now.

She remembers, very vividly, being 19 years old and meeting this handsome 25 year old. Tall, dark hair, bright smile, like a movie star. In fact, when they first started dating, she remembers, again very vividly, telling her mother that she'd met her very own Robert Taylor, and that she was pretty sure she was going to marry him one day.

Twenty years later, and not only did she marry him, but she had two beautiful children with him, and even though they're getting divorced, she wouldn't change any of it for the world. But it's time to move on, and time to let someone else fall in love with him so deeply, the way that she had done once before.

"Well, you're a very handsome man. It's not surprising." It's a genuine compliment from her, and she can't help but smile a little in response to his grin. It's infectious, and he's nice to be around, to talk to. "Don't let him get away with spoiling you too much. I know it'll be nice at first, but he tends to...Go a little over the top sometimes."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah _blushes_. Hugh likes to shower him with compliments and he has yet to get used to hearing them after so many months. He still elicits a reaction from him. It’s probably because he has yet to believe them, but nowadays, every once in a while, he looks at himself in the mirror... and likes what he’s becoming so far.

In any case, it’s an entirely different experience to hear it from a woman as beautiful as her. He’s about to reciprocate the nice talk, and then he raises an eyebrow.

“Sp-spoil me?” He doesn’t think he’s _that_ spoiled. He’s taken care of, and Hugh is incredibly tender, but he doesn’t think that can count as spoiling. He turns to look at her after eyeing Kathryn shove a handful of dirt down Michael’s shirt. Hugh doesn’t seem too aware of the little mischief. “What do you mean?”

\- - - - - - - -

She opens her mouth to answer him, but gets completely distracted as Michael shouts loudly at the dirt that's put down the front of his shirt and shoves Kathryn, which causes her to shout at him.

" _Hey!_ " That's Hugh, and he moves to stand between them, separating them so that he can get the dirt out from underneath Michael's shirt. Kathryn's watching from behind Hugh, her arms wrapped tightly around his hips as she sticks her tongue out at Michael, who does the same in return.

Debbie sighs heavily, placing one hand on her hips as she watches all this happen. "Honestly, if anyone told me that having twins was going to be this stressful..." She only half means it. Sure, they fight sometimes, but at other times they can be the absolute sweetest. For 8 year old twins, they're actually pretty well behaved.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah should probably not find this as funny as he does; he presses the cigarette to his lips and hides his smile behind his hand.

He thinks that maybe he’ll understand what it’s like to deal with them not as little friends, but as children of his own. He tries not to look too hopeful about it, because while Debbie is accepting about him and Hugh and everything that they are, he feels like that would be too invasive. Too quick. But he thinks about it anyway.

He’d be a terrible father, because upon further reflection, he thinks he would’ve still laughed because of their mischief. But then scolded them, because that’s the right thing to do.

“They’re wonderful,” he says softly, “I have a younger sister. I admit I often treated her the same way. But I love her.” He pauses. “They’ve been raised well, Debbie.”

\- - - - - - - -

Any other woman might have bristled at his comment, not needing his approval of how they've raised their kids. But she's not most other women, and she finds that most other women get too haughty over taking advice about their children. They think they're the perfect mothers and housewives, and she can't stand it. She's headstrong, and that's part of the reason that Hugh fell in love with her in the first place.

"Thank you." She smiles warmly at him. "I don't think I could have done it without Hugh." She's not afraid to admit that, and she doesn't think it makes her look like a bad mother at all.

" _Mommy_ , can we stay at Daddy's house tonight?" Michael has come running over to the both of them, and Hugh isn't fair behind them, with Kathryn on his shoulders. "Please?"

Debbie looks at Hugh, who gives a light shrug of his shoulders - which makes Kathryn giggle as it bounces her a little - and then looks at Mudah. "Well, I'm fine with it. If you are."

\- - - - - - - -

He stammers. He's not scared -well, maybe he is, a little. His train of thought abruptly comes to an end, and the final stop is, quite frankly, hilarious.

"Of course," he says before he can catch up with what is happening -because _of course_ he wants them to stay, and spend time with Hugh, and maybe get to know him. And he feels like his heart is at his throat, and that he could skip with happiness all the way from the park back to his apartment.

He doesn't know if the children have caught up with the fact that she's also asking _him_ , who is only Hugh''s friend at the moment. Children are smart. But Kathryn's busy playing with Hugh's hair, and Michael doesn't seem too interested in him for now. Mudah looks at Hugh, and in his eyes there's a warm look, only for him. It's going to be nice.

"Do you guys like ice cream?"

\- - - - - - - -

They both perk up at the mention of ice cream, and Hugh lifts Kathryn off of his shoulders so that he can set her down at his feet. "We _love_ ice cream," she tells Mudah, rather seriously, and Debbie laughs softly. "Don't laugh, Mommy. It's _true_." She puts her hands on her hips, and Debbie does the same in return.

Hugh is smiling warmly as he watches this, but Michael looks pretty bored with it all. "...So are we getting ice cream?" He asks Mudah. Hugh ruffles his hair a little, and he wriggles away from his touch.

"Well, if you're all getting ice cream, I think now's my cue to leave." Debbie speaks up, and Hugh gives a slight nod. "I'd join you, but I can't eat dairy," she says this to Mudah, so he doesn't think that she doesn't want to spend time with them. It would be nice, to see how he interacts with her children.

But she has errands to run that she can't usually do with them around, so it'll also be nice to get those done too.

\- - - - - - - -

"Oh- alright." Funny, how he could go from being wary around her to thinking he would miss her now that she wouldn't join them. But he nods anyway, hoping she takes advantage of the time she will have for herself. He leans closer to her, as if to share a secret: "I can't eat some things either. But who doesn't like ice cream?"

He looks down at Michael and nods. He's mischievous, and funny, and maybe he needs to look out for him more so than his sister. Maybe. Like a little fire cracker. "Sure. What's your favorite flavor though?"

He says his goodbyes to Debbie, and inhales deeply. All things considered, this is going very well. He wants to see her again, soon, hopefully. He looks at Hugh, who is looking at him, and shrugs. I like her.

\- - - - - - - -

Kathryn is clearly a Daddy's girl, because she drifts back over to Hugh once she's done talking with Mudah. He picks her up and gives her a kiss on the cheek, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

Michael, however, is now embedded in this conversation, because he's being asked about his favourite ice cream flavour, and it's like the floodgates have been opened. "I don't like vanilla. It's boring. Sometimes my favourite is mint choc chip, but the mint is too cold in my mouth sometimes. And then sometimes I like chocolate, but sometimes it makes me sick. I don't like strawberry either. Oh! I _love_ bubblegum! I think bubblegum is my favourite flavour of all time."

"Y'know," Hugh cuts in, to save Mudah from this endless ramble about ice cream flavours that Michael will absolutely continue with if he's not stopped. "I think we have ice cream back at the apartment, if you wanna head back there now?"

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh is mistaken if he thinks Mudah isn't interested in their little conversation, though maybe he is a little overwhelmed, as if suddenly there is too much in his hands and he has no way of holding everything. So he nods in agreement, and as they head back to the parking lot engages in conversation; this time of cars and school and his favorite toys.

There's little opportunity to actually talk to Hugh. But he's okay with that.


	7. Chapter 7

He's making funny faces at Kathryn -has been doing so for the past ten minutes, but he's not tired at all; if anything she reminds him of Nima and how much she loves making fun of his eyes- when Hugh stops the car all of a sudden. He doesn't recognize this street. This is definitely not outside his apartment, so he winks at Kathryn before he turns to look at Hugh.

"What is it? Are you meeting someone here? I thought we said no work," and his gaze quickly drifts towards the children, as if to indicate that maybe they should be concerned with all the treats they've promised them instead of... whatever this is.

\- - - - - - - -

"This isn't work." He says easily, and turns the ignition off. Kathryn shuffles over to the window so that she could look out of it, up at the house that they're parked outside of. Michael does the same, peeking over Kathryn's shoulder.

Hugh gets out of the car, leaving the door open for Mudah, before he moves to the back of the car to open the door for the kids, who scramble out in their excitement at going somewhere new. "Where are we, Daddy?" "Is this where you live?" "Is there ice cream here?"

He takes a set of keys out of his pocket and heads for the house, Kathryn and Michael following close behind, and unlocks the front door. And then he stops, and waits, turning to face Mudah as he does so. "I think there _might_ be some ice cream here," he says, pretty fucking cryptically.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah steps out of the car, slowly. It's huge -or he thinks it is, because this type of house belongs to the rich and powerful, white suburban families with perfect smiles and perfect lives, never for someone like him. It has a little lawn, and when the children run towards the door he feels as if he is stepping into one of the many pictures he's taken and the ones he's drawn for ads.

_He tends to go a little over the top sometimes._

He's speechless. And he's staring at Hugh, and then he's walking inside, as if his feet have a mind of their own, because he could've spent an eternity standing there, dumbfounded. On the inside, it's even prettier. Michael is already running up the stairs, and Kathryn opens a door nearby and looks inside quizzically. It can't be what he thinks it is. It can't be, right? That's--

"Hugh," he breathes out, swallows quietly and lifts a hand to his mouth. "Hugh. Did you- did you buy-" _Did you buy us a house?_

He's not quite sure how to gauge this reaction, but he knows how he can. "Ice cream's in the freezer, through that way." He tells the kids, and after Michael's come back downstairs, they run off in the direction of the kitchen, chanting about ice cream, leaving the two of them alone.

Hugh steps closer, reaching out to push the door shut with a soft 'click', and when they're safe in the privacy of these walls, where no-one can see them, he gently takes hold of Mudah's hands.

"...Is this okay?" He asks. He's been told that sometimes he can overstep the mark when it comes to things like this. Debbie's told him many times that he really needs to stop spending his money because he might not always have it. But he's of the persuasion that you can't take it with you when you die, so you may as well spend it whilst you have it. "I know it's only been a few months, but I'd been hoping Debbie would change her mind about the kids. And when she did, I thought we'd need somewhere bigger for them to stay."

\- - - - - - - -

The kids are off to the kitchen and he's alone with Hugh, still looking over his shoulder at what looks like the living room, and then there's the _dining room_ which looks magnificent-

He hears the door close, and he feels his hands on his own.

He only looks away again to make sure the children aren't anywhere nearby, and then he lifts himself on the tips of his toes and presses a rushed but _thrilled_ kiss to his lips. He's also lifted his hands to cup his face, and then he lets go and his eyes are a bit watery. Otherwise? He's smiling so bright.

"Fuck," he says, and though he knows Hugh doesn't accept that sort of language anywhere outside the bedroom or the safety of their place (this _is_ their home now, isn't it?), he says it. Because he can't think of anything better to say. Except:

"I love you," he says quietly, "I'm just- I- I would've never thought... it's more than okay. _Alhamdulillah_ , Hugh. Thank you."

\- - - - - - - -

He smiles warmly, even though again he doesn’t know what that means, but Mudah’s gratitude is more than enough to translate. He’d known this was a risky buy, and he loved being in Mudah’s apartment with him, because it was cosy and nice and comforting.

But here, they can entertain. They can have the kids over to stay. It might be a little difficult to explain why two grown men are sharing a house in the suburbs, but he’s found that people usually don’t question him because he has that air of authority surrounding him, which is going to extend to Mudah too because he’ll be damned if anyone comes for him.

He leans in to press a soft kiss against Mudah’s lips, but hears the kids on their way back through and pulls away before they can connect. It hurts him to do it, causes a gentle pang in his chest, but it’s not the time. Not yet. “Daddy, we can’t find the ice cream.” He laughs softly, and with a final glance back at Mudah, he shepherds them through to the kitchen.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah falls back and rocks his weight on his feet, and he follows them to the kitchen, but slowly. He's looking around, at the décor in the walls and the furniture, and he breathes in and he smells the soft scent of wood and paint. It's so clean. Big. It puts his apartment to absolute shame, though he still has a soft spot for it. He's lived through so much there, it's going to be hard to move out of it.

But _here_ a new life awaits for them. It's the house, as a whole, which moves him. It is also mostly the fact that Hugh loves him so much that he is willing to do this for him; for themselves. They've gone from sleeping around, to knowing each other, to this. It's undeniably shocking. He never thought he'd have something like this. Briefly, he worries over how he's going to explain this to people- but he doesn't care. They've seen two men in an apartment. They can see them in a house, too.

The kitchen is spacious. He can definitely make more than eggs and toast here, and the thought alone makes him smile to himself. He walks to the refrigerator, and sure enough, the ice cream is there, just out of the kids' reach, so it's obvious why they couldn't find it. It's pretty much empty, too.

"You bought all this but didn't stock up the fridge?" He whispers to Hugh, teasing, and when he addresses the kids he speaks louder, clear. "Michael, it's your lucky day! It's _bubblegum_."

\- - - - - - - -

That pang in his chest is gone, replaced with a warmth that floods through his entire body as he watches Mudah interact with his son. Admittedly, he’d been worried about how the kids would react to him, whether they’d be skeptical about talking to him, but they seem to have accepted him wholeheartedly into their lives. It speaks volumes about how they might react when he finally tells them the full story.

When, not if, because he’s going to tell them. They have to know, because he doesn’t see Mudah _not_ being in his life, and when they get older, they’re going to have questions, undoubtedly. And he wants to answer them honestly, because if there’s one thing he’s always promised himself, it’s that he would never lie to them. But he can only tell them when he knows they’re old enough not to tell anyone. It’s not that he doesn’t want anyone to know, it’s just...Not the done thing. He hates it, hates that he can’t be proud of his love.

Michael claps his hands together excitedly, at the prospect of bubblegum ice cream. Kathryn, meanwhile, wrinkles up her nose a little. But Hugh opens up the freezer compartment and pulls out a small one-serving tub of strawberry ice cream. “Strawberry for you, slightly melted bubblegum for him. Good?” She nods, and takes the tub from him, before going off in search of spoons. “Top drawer, that one just there.” Michael points at the tub of ice cream, then looks expectantly at Mudah. “Can I have some please?”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah snaps into action, as he has been distracted looking at Hugh interact with his daughter. It's all he's done today, but he doesn't think he can ever get used to him being so gentle, funny-- he _is_ all those things. This is merely different.

"Sure thing," he helps Kathryn with the spoons, though he carries the tub of ice cream as he eyes the contents and the label with curiosity. No work, he said, but Hugh is rubbing off on him and maybe he's already coming up with something for a hypothetical ice cream brand. Briefly.

When he returns he sets the tub in front of him and hands them each a spoon. He's taken one for himself, though he murmurs words that they will not understand under his breath first. His gaze fixes on Hugh again, as he smiles, though he's talking to the children when he says: "So. What are we toasting for?"

\- - - - - - - -

“Bubblegum ice cream!” Michael shouts triumphantly, though Kathryn takes a little more time to think about it before she answers with: “All ice cream!” Michael’s in agreement with that, and he raises his spoon in the air, prompting her to do the same.

Hugh looks between the both of them, with a soft smile on his lips. He’s content, truly, to have this new home that he shares with his love, and to have his children here with him. He knows they’re not here permanently, and he wouldn’t ever truly take then away from Debbie as nice as it would be to have them living with him. He knows it wouldn’t be practical either, because him and Mudah work a _lot_. But having them here from time to time is nice enough too.

“To new beginnings,” he says, and raises his own spoon, looking directly at Mudah as he does so.

\- - - - - - - -

He thinks he can get used to this. To leading a normal life, a happy one, here with Hugh and the children. It makes him realize he's never thought of growing old with someone. Not because the idea itself is weird, the more he thinks about it. But he's never had someone he deemed worthy of that, as silly as it may have sounded.

Here, as he watches Hugh solemnly raise his spoon and feels his lips quirk into a smile, he definitely knows he wants to feel like this for as long as he can.

"To new beginnings, and ice cream, and cats," he adds, which makes Kathryn nod enthusiastically, and that's all that matters to him. And he takes a spoonful of ice cream, which immediately freezes his teeth, but he's not going to complain about it. "Hey, this isn't too bad."

\- - - - - - - -

“I _told_ you, bubblegum ice cream is the best.” It seems like Michael has really taken to Mudah, because he’s grinning up at him, smile wide and eyes bright. He’d even chosen the chair closest to Mudah’s, whereas Kathryn had scooted hers a little closer to Hugh’s. And it’s not because she doesn’t like him, it’s just that she’s a little more wary around strangers than her brother is.

Hugh goes to dip his spoon into her pot of ice cream and she makes a noise of disgust before pushing his spoon away with her own. So Hugh points at something behind her with the end of his spoon, which gets her to look over her shoulder. She looks back at him just in time to see the strawberry ice cream go into his mouth. “Hey,” she frowns, and he winks at her. “You snooze, you lose, princess,” he teases.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah laughs. He spends the entire evening laughing, and joking with the children. He takes to Michael because the boy is a bouncing ball of energy, so curious and thrilled about him and life, in general. He makes him talk and play and then they go out to play with bugs, because Kathryn doesn't like them, but Mudah does. Eventually he spends time with her too, and it's amazing how different they are but how much _Hugh_ he sees in them.

When it's time to go home, they hug him, and Mudah's heart stops beating for a little bit.


	8. Chapter 8

Moving in his things is not as hard as he'd thought. He's settled in within the week; he didn't have a lot in his apartment anyway. Which is sad, when he thinks about it, but all he needs is clothes and his camera, and his pencils and sketchbooks and what little he's dragged from the office when work needs to be finished at home. And Hugh. So not as sad as he thought.

That day he gets home a little late. Adler won't get off his back about the recent batch of sketches they need to present to Procter & Gamble. It would be fine- if they didn't change their minds every two days. But he guesses that's just how they like to work. Messy. Disorderly. He hates them.

"Hugh?"

It's dark, so he doesn't know why he calls out for him. He's not home. He should be.

He frowns all the way upstairs, because maybe he's feeling sick, and he's resting. But he's not there either. He saw him leave earlier. Naturally he's already worrying, but the thing about worrying all the time is that eventually, he doesn't know if he should or not. So he goes downstairs, fixes himself a drink, and waits.

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't get home for another three hours after that, and he opens the door slowly, quietly, because the last thing that he wants to do right now is wake Mudah. God, he hopes that he's sleeping, so that he can quietly sort this problem out without having to worry him this late at night.

It's 10pm, and he'd stayed way too late at work. Mudah had come in to say that he was leaving, already later than he should have been, and Hugh had told him that he had a few more things to do but he'd come home as soon as he was done. That was two hours before he'd actually gotten home.

They get the train to and from work, because it's easier than trying to find a parking space in the city. But the problem is, by the time he'd gotten off the train from the city, it's pretty damn dark, and whilst the walk home is nice, it takes him past a pretty rough part of town. Usually, he's not bothered at all, because it's only 9pm and he cuts a pretty imposing figure in the dark. Plus, it's only a twenty minute walk home from the station. But he catches sight of three guys who keep looking over at him as he gets close, so he crosses the road to steer clear of them.

It's not enough though, because they follow after him and shove him into an alley as he passes it. They demand his wallet, and he gives it to them, because he's not a fucking idiot. They tell him to hand over his watch, so he takes it off and holds it out to them, because again, he's not a fucking idiot, and he's not going to lose his life over things that can easily be replaced.

Before they leave, however, something hits him on the back of the head, _hard_ , and he crumples to the ground, stars dancing in front of his vision. He curls in on himself a little to protect his torso. A hard boot connects with his brow and he blacks out at that point. When he wakes a few minutes later, they're gone, and thankfully, they haven't completely emptied his pockets. They've taken his wallet, his watch, but left him with his keys, and he thanks whatever fucking Gods are up there for that.

Slowly, he drags himself up to his feet, touching gently at his brow with a soft hiss, and his fingers come away wet with blood. His ribs are definitely bruised too, though he can move enough that he's sure he hasn't broken any.

He must look a damn sight coming through the front door, and he closes it with a soft click, before resting his head against it with a heavy groan. It takes all of his strength not to collapse there and then, because the walk home had been arduous. It had taken him 40 minutes to walk the rest of the 15 minute walk, and now he just wants to lay down and sleep for a week.

\- - - - - - - -

He isn’t asleep. He’s wide awake in the living room, an ashtray full of ash by his side, and a lit cigarette between trembling fingers. He hasn’t called Debbie just yet because he doesn’t want to alarm her, but Hugh is rarely this late. He’s just... not the type to do this.

The television is on but he doesn’t understand a word of what is being said. A woman is told off by her husband and the crowd laughs.

He called his secretary though. And she tells him it’s been a while since he left the office, so what could’ve possibly held him back?

When the door opens Mudah’s head turns so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t snap his own neck. It’s him, he knows that silhouette too well. His keys jingle in the otherwise silent house, and he stands up to turn the television off and to greet him at the door.

But something is wrong, he can tell, and when he turns on the light he sees blood and dirt on him. Mudah inhales sharply. He feels like throwing up, except he doesn’t. He rushes to his side, desperately cupping Hugh’s face and touching his shoulder- pulling his hand away for a moment, _how badly is he hurt?_ Who did this to him, “Hugh, what _happened_?”

He knows he sounds desperate and terrified, but he has a right to be, he thinks. He feels like he can’t breathe properly. But this time he can’t just let it take over. He has to be strong for him.

“Come on.” He doesn’t know where he’s taking him. To the couch or their bed; anywhere but there. “Oh Hugh.” He curses in arabic, looks at him and tries to swallow the knot in his throat. It doesn’t work at all.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh lifts his head from the door as Mudah's hand settles on his cheek for a few brief moments, and he leaves a stark smear of blood on the white wood as he does. He'll have to clean that off in the morning, because he absolutely does not have the energy to do it right now. He's not even thinking about it, if he's perfectly honest. The only thing he can properly focus on right now is the fact that Mudah is leading him _somewhere_.

Thankfully, it's the sofa, because he can only make it that far before his legs give way and he all but collapses against the soft cushions, grimacing as he gets a sharp pain in his ribs. He exhales shakily, before he shifts a little, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain, but he moves himself in just the wrong way and lets out a loud wince.

"... _Fuck_."

As he opens his eyes to look up at Mudah, he can see - through unshed tears that won't fall, they never do - that he's panicked. That he's worried. And Hugh feels absolutely fucking terrible for putting him through that, even though he couldn't have done anything differently to change the outcome of this.

Or maybe he could've come home half an hour earlier, maybe he could've walked a different way home. He could've done at least something to stop that look on Mudah's face from happening.

"Are you okay?" He asks quietly, because it's hard enough to make words right now, let alone put any power behind them.

\- - - - - - - -

Anyone’s first option would be to call the police, except he doesn’t think that’s wise given they won’t take him seriously and he’ll probably worsen this; he’ll put Hugh under more stress and that is the _last_ thing he wants. He should get him to a doctor, but he can’t even stand.

“ _Me?_ ” Mudah asks, incredulous and wide eyed. How can _he_ ask him if _he’s_ fine? It says volumes of his priorities, to make sure he’s okay even though he’s done nothing but spend hours thinking the worst. He’s not the one who’s bleeding. Who got kicked, by the looks of it. His watch is gone. It doesn’t take a genius to see what happened to him.

And it hurts him that he wasn’t there to do _something_. Maybe if he’d gone back and tried looking for him, and walked back with him and _been_ there for him.

Mudah puts his head down and squeezes his eyes shut. He can’t let him see him like this. As much as he wants to, he can’t right now. Which makes him say: “I’m going to get some ice,” and he stands up and storms towards the kitchen. Not because he’s mad at Hugh. He’s _furious_ at whoever did this. He doesn’t think he’s ever such rage.

When he returns to his side he brings a packet of ice and a cloth and a glass of water too. “I was so worried. I–“ he looks at his forehead, where dried blood mixes with the one that is beginning to drip since the pressure of his head against the door might’ve been a little too much for it. “I should be asking you that. But. You’re not. You’re not okay. We should go to the hospital, Hugh.”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah's footsteps sound like thunder as he storms through to the kitchen, rattling through his skull and knocking something loose, something that needs to just be still and settle down for a moment.

When Mudah comes back from the kitchen, his eyes are closed and his head is lolling back slightly against the sofa. There's a light sheen of sweat on his forehead that mixes with the blood and makes it look like there's a little more than there is. Head wounds always bleed too much anyway, they have a tendency to pour blood even when they're not all that bad. He dreads to think about what the concrete of the alleyway he passed out in looks like.

He opens his eyes halfway when he hears Mudah's voice, and he just looks more tired than anything else. He could easily sleep for two weeks now, instead of just one. He's tired, and he's in pain, and Mudah looks _stressed_ , even if he's trying not to, and he hates it. He hates that he's the cause for this. He hates that he's the reason Mudah is going through this.

"I'm not going to the hospital," he says with a careful shake of his head, slow and measured so he doesn't knock his calm loose again. "I'll be fine." He might not be, but he doesn't want 'what if's right now. He doesn't want to spend the rest of the night worrying about what might happen, when he needs to spend the rest of the night making sure that Mudah is going to be okay, even if he wants to crawl into bed and pass out again.

"Help me upstairs. Please," he requests.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah stares at him. He doesn’t want to go to a hospital, and he wonders if that stubbornness is product of the wound on his head or not. But. He looks tired. So, so tired, and he would rather have him here with him than in a separate room being poked with needles and interrogated endlessly. He needs to sleep.

So he stuffs the cloth in his back pocket and leans down to help him up. He’s heavy; most of his weight presses down upon him and he struggles for a bit, until he has a strong grip on his arm. A hand carefully wraps around his waist.

The trip upstairs to their room is arduous. Not that he notices it, because he can only focus on his laboured breathing, the faint scent of blood that lingers on him. When he finally settles him on the bed, and when he steps back, he notices his hands haven’t stopped shaking.

There’s- there’s so much he needs to do. Feels like he needs to do for him. He needs to help him out of his dirty clothes, he needs to wipe the sweat off his forehead. But all he can do is let out a choked sob, shake his head, and wrap his arms around him. “I’m sorry.”

\- - - - - - - -

It's surprising that they make it upstairs without stumbling at least once, and Mudah is deceptively stronger than he looks. Hugh tries to help as much as he can, gripping onto the banister with as much of his weight as he can manage from time to time.

The bed is more comfortable than the couch, softer, and less of a strain on his ribs. It provides more of a cushion that he can relax into, and it's so very hard not to let his eyes slide shut and just fall asleep there and then. He wants to, but he refrains, because Mudah is his priority right now, even when he should probably put his own health first.

' _I'm sorry_.'

As if he has something to apologise for, as if he's the one at fault here.

His ribs burn with the pain, because he's bent at slightly the wrong angle as Mudah's arms wrap around him. But he isn't going to say anything, isn't going to make a fuss, because Mudah obviously needs this right now, even if Hugh is struggling to breathe right now. "It's okay..." It's not okay, it's anything _but_ okay, and he finally has to shift himself a little with a quiet _groan_ of pain.

\- - - - - - - -

It’s not okay. It’s not okay in the slightest, and he lets go of him when he hears him groan but he still looks at him with deep pain in his eyes.

Of all people, Hugh is the one who does not deserve something like this. He is kind and rational and there was no reason for anyone to beat him like this. Over what? Over things that hardly mattered. He feels so incompetent and helpless. It’s a pit in his stomach and it’s a painful grip on his heart.

He arranges the pillow behind him, gives him another so he can sit up a little. He unbuttons his shirt to spot bruises that will surely blacken and worsen with time. He sucks in a breath, looks away with a furrowed brow.

He won’t be sleeping tonight. He _can’t_. And for a moment he catches himself wishing a terrible fate upon those responsible. His nostrils flare, his hands curl into fists.

“You need to rest,” he says, his quiet voice contrasting with the way his body has tensed. “I’m here, okay? I’m here, Hugh. I’m not leaving your side.”

\- - - - - - - -

He reaches out to take hold of Mudah's hands, to stop him from unbuttoning his shirt any further. Clearly, it's only stressing him out more, and he'll stay dressed in these blood-covered clothes all night if he has to, if it's going to keep Mudah's stress levels down to a manageable level.

Unlikely, but it's worth a shot.

"You need to sleep," he murmurs, and the weak grip that he has on Mudah's hands is about all that he can manage right about now. Tiredness, fatigue, pain, they're all setting in and completely _draining_ him. With a gentle touch, he attempts to unfurl his fists so that he can lace their fingers together. "You've been up all night."

He blinks, but it's slow, and his eyes stay closed for a little longer than they should. When he opens then again, he finds it hard to meet Mudah's gaze, to focus, as his vision swims. "I need to sleep."

\- - - - - - - -

It’s unbelievable how Hugh doesn’t want him to worry, but everything he does or says does the very opposite of calming him. He feels like an idiot for letting him see him like this. He knows he has every right, but he doesn’t want him to worry when he’s _like this_.

Later he realises they’re both doing their best to comfort each other. But this time their best is simply not good enough.

“I’ll sleep,” and it’s the first lie he’s ever told him in all the months they’ve known each other. He links their fingers together, covers their hand with his own. It’s the only way he can communicate that he’ll stay by his side, because he doesn’t want to risk speaking again. His voice will betray him.

He pulls at the sheets and brings them over Hugh. He has a few phone calls to make. But that can wait. Everything can wait– his priority, the love of his life, needs to sleep thinking Mudah is going to be fine. Knowing he’s going to be there when he wakes up.

He kisses his temple, and closes his eyes as he listens to his breathing.

\- - - - - - - -

He gives a slight nod, and his body and brain are already shutting off for the night at this point. For the briefest of moments, his grip tightens on Mudah's hands as he moves himself enough that he can sleep in some kind of mild sense of comfort. He drops his head onto Mudah's shoulder, eyes sliding shut.

For all that he'd been complaining he was tired, he finds it suddenly hard to drift off. Maybe it's the pain, or maybe it's the feeling of constant vigilance that has now seeped into every inch of his body.

The whole situation has left him feeling incredibly vulnerable, and he _hates_ that. Because even though he's in his own home, somewhere he should feel safe, his last thought before he finally drifts off is whether or not they locked the front door before they came upstairs. It would almost be enough to jolt him awake if he wasn't so fucking exhausted.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Mudah doesn’t sleep.

He makes sure Hugh does, though, and as soon as his breathing evens out and the grip on his hand loosens, he slips away. As much as he would’ve loved to lay down next to him- this is not one of those times where that would’ve been as enjoyable, as comforting.

He takes off his shoes. He cleans the blood and sweat as best as he can. He phones his brother, because he’s the only person he can think of; and he’s an idiot for not considering him earlier but panic had been fog in his mind. He’d been stupidly blinded by it. Slowed down, and lost because if it.

It’s not that he feels any better when he arrives a couple of hours later. As much as he would’ve wanted him to materialise right away in his living room, the man has a life of his own. But he does not feel guilty for disturbing him. And he believes Omar does not mind, because he heard the strain in Mudah’s voice and promised he would be there as soon as possible.

So no, he doesn’t feel better. If anything, seeing his brother at his doorstep makes him feel _worse_. It makes everything feel more real. And he’s not sure how to explain this.

Omar knows him too well. He doesn’t ask questions, because the wounded man in his bed _needs_ medical help. But he regards him with an inquisitive stare every once in a while. Mudah brushes it off alarmingly well, until he can’t anymore.

It’s a few more hours until Hugh stirs. But they’ve been talking, hushed whispers of Arabic from the stairs, so they don’t notice right away.

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't wake up, more like he drifts into consciousness. It's a slow process, because something feels absolutely different, and he's oddly unaware of his surroundings right now. Well, he knows he's in their bedroom, and that he's on their bed, his head's still just a little fuzzy, that's all. It's understandable, after everything that happened.

Speaking of, he reaches up to touch at his head, which has been bandaged up apparently, and he frowns slightly. That's what's different. But when the fuck did that happen? He cracks one eye open, just to check he didn't somehow end up in a hospital overnight, and he confirms that he's still in their bedroom. And then he catches sight of two figures out in the hallway.

Two figures. His brain supplies him with the information that Mudah is, in fact, only one person, and that there should not be two people stood out in his hallway right now. He blinks a couple of times, trying to clear his vision to make sure that it's not just a blurred version of Mudah and that he's not seeing double.

No, he can hear them _talking_ , in a language that he doesn't recognise; he absolutely _can_ recognise it but just not right now, that's all. "Hey!" He calls out, voice harsh from lack of use and having just woken up. The panic sets in immediately, and he struggles to get up off of the bed. His first thought isn't that he's going to do more damage to his ribs, but rather that he needs to get to Mudah _now_.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is startled by the voice that erupts from their room- he jumps in his spot and quickly turns so he sees Hugh scrambling out of bed. "Hugh," he says, though his voice is yet a whisper, he cannot hear him. He walks inside, with little rushed steps, holds his hands out until they find his shoulders and his arm. "Hugh, stay still, habibi, please, it's okay. It's okay, I'm here."

Omar has also walked inside. He is a somewhat burly man: anyone would think him a football player instead of a doctor. But otherwise- he has the same eyes as Mudah, the same nose, ears, jaw. "Forgive me. I am doctor Nassar. My brother called me so I could tend to your wounds."

(He bristles when he hears his brother call this man habibi, but otherwise remains impassive, and professional.)

"I--" Mudah breathes out, reaches for his hand and holds it. It's just me. It's just them, and he promised he would stay with him and stay he did and stay he would. He feels incredibly guilty for scaring him like this. Through the pang of pain in his chest he finds the strength he needs to comfort him, in any way he can. "You said no hospital. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh doesn't relax, even as Mudah's hands settle on his arm and shoulder, his eyes darting between him and Omar. Now that he can see the both of them more clearly, he can see the stark similarities between them. Mudah has a slightly slimmer face, but it's pretty damn obvious that they're twins.

He hadn't even known that Mudah had a twin.

But that's not important right now. What's important right now is that Mudah is _safe_ , and when he takes his hand, Hugh finds himself settling back onto the bed. His breathing is harsh, coming quickly, and he tries to regulate it because it _hurts_ to breathe hard like this. It's taking a toll on his already bruised ribs.

He closes his eyes for a few moments, swallows heavily. "I thought..." He thought the worst, is what happened. All rational thought went flying out of the window, and his hand grips just a little onto Mudah's. His grip strength is apparently returning, but it's still pretty damn weak right now. "...You're okay," is what he settles on finally.

\- - - - - - - -

"Yeah," he says slowly, because awareness settles in -rather, kicks him harsh and unforgiving- and he wishes he could've done this differently. He still thinks he's in danger. But instead of worrying for himself, he worries for _him_. Mudah wants to hold him close.

But first, he looks at his brother, and tilts his head slightly.

Omar takes that as his cue. Whatever conversation was cut off by Hugh waking up can be resumed at a later date. He feels like an outsider anyways. "I'll leave you to my brother, Mr. Bennett. Give me a call if anything changes, I'll be around, and I'll be back to check on you." And he switches to Arabic to say: " _take care, little man_ ," turns, and walks out of the room.

When he hears footsteps down the stairs, he sits down next to him, leans down, and presses their noses together. Not their foreheads. He doesn't want to hurt him anymore. "I'm sorry for scaring you. It's okay, I promise."

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't say anything, his eyes fixed on the open door, and he keeps quiet until he hears the front door click shut. It clicks shut, but it's not locked, and he tries his damn hardest not to think about that. He turns his attention to Mudah, tries to focus on him instead, tries to shut out the cacophony of voices in his head that say ' _not safe, not safe, not safe_ ' over and over again.

It's not okay, he wants to tell him. It's probably not going to be okay for a _long_ time. But he tries to tell himself that they don't know where he lives, that they didn't follow him out, and that this is a nice, _safe_ area. There are families that live either side of them, families that probably still leave their doors unlocked at night, it's going to be _fine_.

Mudah's nose touches against his, and Hugh's eyelids flutter shut, and he just breathes for a few seconds. And it helps, for a little while, because he can shut off his brain and just focus on the feeling of touch, of their hands linked together, but eventually it has to end, they can't stay like this forever, and his brain kicks into gear again.

"Go lock the door."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah's eyes flutter open. He is grateful he cannot focus on Hugh's eyes the way they are sitting right now, because his brow furrows and his lips twist into a frown.

He knows what it is to be sick with apprehension each and every passing moment of his life. To live every day teetering on the edge of _bad, bad, bad,_ , until it takes over everything you do and see and hear, and it becomes you, in a way. This is not what he wants for Hugh. It is not okay. And he was an idiot for thinking it was, but he can't say it isn't. To himself, maybe. To him? Never.

This is when Mudah gets to be absolutely fucking _terrified_ for him, and when that fear has to be transformed into something actually useful.

He stands up, gives him a last look before he goes downstairs and locks the door. He doesn't think he's ever locked the door before, because it's a safe neighbourhood and he feels safe with Hugh. His fingertips are white when he lets go of the lock. He makes sure to lock the backdoor too, in case he asks. The walk upstairs is... distressing, but moments before he enters their room he slips on a mask of security, and that is it.

"What else do you need, my love?" (It's an incredibly loaded question.)

\- - - - - - - -

What does he need? Yeah, that's absolutely a loaded question, one that he doesn't actually know how to answer because he doesn't know what he wants right now.

He wants to be alone right now, but at the same time, he desperately wants Mudah to stay right here with him. He wants to get some more sleep, but he wants to make sure that Mudah gets some sleep first, because God knows he needs it right about now. Hugh knows he must have been asleep for a couple of hours, at least, and Mudah has been wide awake since _this morning_. It's not good.

Actually, most of all, what he wants is for Mudah to be _okay_ , but he knows that's not going to happen any time soon. He doesn't think either of them are going to be okay for a while, and that's just something they're going to have to work through.

"Come to bed," he says, shifting a little onto his side so that he can have Mudah curled up against him. _That's_ what he wants most of all. He wants his love in his arms, pressed up against him, no matter how much it hurts his ribs to do so. He needs him close, he needs him nearby, he needs to touch and hold and kiss and _be with him_.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah does feel tired. But he does not care for that. The invitation to bed is, however, a welcome request. He thinks if he lies down for a minute he will fall asleep right away, but he couldn't have been more wrong.

When he lies down next to him, after taking off his shoes, tossing them aside carelessly, he feels more alert than ever. Only because this is the first time he has held Hugh like this since he dragged himself into their home, and it _feels_ different. He wants to be held, but he does not want to hurt him. He wants to kiss him, and tell him it's going to be fine, even when it's not.

He scoots closer until they are but a breath apart. His hand rests on his hip, and he looks up at him. His eyes wander over the bandage Omar put over his wound. "I'm here, Hugh. We're here."

\- - - - - - - -

Despite how much it physically pains him to do it, he wraps both of his arms tight around Mudah and pulls him in close, tangling their legs together as he does so. The movement creates a burning sensation in his chest, but he tries his damned hardest to ignore it because it's worth it to have this closeness to his love. It's worth it to have that close contact, that touch, the thing that always grounds them.

"I love you." He has to say it, he has to tell him, because he feels like he came so close to never being able to say it to him again. Carefully, he leans down so that he can kiss him, softly, tentatively, with some hesitation because he's not sure what the vibe in the room is like right now.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah cups his face with both hands, craning his neck to return the kiss. It's soft and careful, at least from his behalf it is, because he would love if Hugh had him but he isn't quite certain he _can_ , or if he _should_ , and the very last thing he wants to do is hurt him. It's going to make him feel worse. _You should rest_ , he wants to say. They should both rest.

But he responds to the kiss eagerly, with love, as he always does, and as he always wants to. "I love you too." Hugh probably thinks he was never able to say that again. Mudah almost never said that again. It makes his chest feel heavy, and he closes his eyes and kisses him again. "I love you so much."

\- - - - - - - -

His kiss becomes a little more desperate, a little more needy, now that he knows that Mudah is going to return it. It's all he can do not to push him onto his back and straddle him, but he doesn't think his body could manage that right now. As much as he's aching to do it, as much as he is craving it on a deeply intimate level, it might put him out of commission for a lot longer.

So, for now, he just continues to kiss him, because he doesn't want to rest anymore, not right now. He's done enough resting for the time being. Now, he just needs to feel safe again, and he finds his safety in Mudah's arms, in the way that he tastes and the way that he feels. It's easy, and it's comforting.

\- - - - - - - -

Whatever resolve he desperately grips at while he kisses Hugh starts to slip away when he kisses him and suddenly there is more teeth and tongue; he's no idiot, he knows what _that_ means. What it could bring, if he lets him carry on.

Mudah responds by shifting closer, though a second later, he pulls back and catches his breath. He doesn't open his eyes because he doesn't think he can handle looking at him if he's upset him, or disappointed him. His tongue flicks out and tastes him on his lips too, so he focuses on that instead. "Wait, _habibi_ \- I don't- I don't want to hurt you. I'd love to. But I need to make sure you're okay. Yeah?"

\- - - - - - - -

He answers with another kiss, following it up by nipping gently at Mudah's lower lip with his teeth. It's all the answer that he needs to give, not needing to use his words right now because this should be _enough_. His eyes open enough so that he can look at Mudah, whose eyes are still closed, and he doesn't think he's ever been so attracted to any other person in his life.

"Babe..." His voice is low, little more than a deep growl at this point, and his fingers tug gently at the waist of Mudah's pants. At this point, if it's not clear what he wants, then he doesn't know what's going to do it. "Take 'em off."

\- - - - - - - -

The low dip of his voice is enough to _do_ things to him. Hugh surely knows this. He must, and then he tilts his hips enough so that he presses against him. His mind races a million miles per hour; he wonders if he should do this, if he should tell him to stop, or if he should say nothing at all.

He opts for the latter. But maybe there is a lot to be said in the way he breathes out only a second before he lets go of his face and reaches down to undo his belt. His hands are not trembling. Maybe it's what they need. A release of tension, something to wear them down so that they may sleep for the days to come. So that they only have each other, and hopefully Hugh can find comfort in him the way he does in Hugh.

He breathes out quietly, and takes Hugh's lips in his own again. His pants don't come off all the way, it's hard to do that when they're a tangle of limbs, but now there's only his underwear as a layer between him and Hugh.

\- - - - - - - -

He watches him undo his belt, the clinking of metal from the buckle sounding out in the silence of the room. And then Mudah's kissing him again, and Hugh helps him get out of his pants as best as he can, pushing them down as far as they'll go. His hand settles on Mudah's lower back, keeping him hold close just for now, so he can take what he needs from the kiss.

It'll be good for both of them, he thinks, to relieve some tension.

His teeth lightly catch Mudah's lower lip again, this time a little more deliberate with his intentions, as he hands comes around to palm him through the front of his underwear. "I want you," he tells him, trailing heavy kisses on any bit on skin that he can reach from here. "All of you. Every single...Fucking inch of you."

\- - - - - - - -

There's something in his touch. Desperation, maybe. He knows he's scared, he just can't think of any other way to reassure him. He can't actually _think_ , once Hugh's touching him through his underwear. He swallows back a whimper, because right now, he doesn't feel like whining too loudly. It would be interrupting deep intimacy that settles in- and interrupting him.

He tries to part his legs, but gives up when the hem of his pants keep him from moving anymore. Instead, he lifts his hips, meets his hand, exhales hot breath against his lips. He begins undoing Hugh's pants, wrinkled from sleeping in them, slips his hands beneath his shirt and meets hot skin, thick hair.

"I'm here to give you anything you want. You know that."

\- - - - - - - -

It's desperation, plain and simple.

He's not ashamed of that, why should he be? It's human to need something like this after a shock, it's natural. There's nothing wrong with him wanting to get off, with needing a release.

It hurts a little, when Mudah's hands slip underneath his shirt, but he holds it in. The pain reminds him of what happened, sure, and it reminds him of what he could have lost. But it also spurs on him, pushes him to fight back against that pain.

He slides his hand upwards, palm settling flat against Mudah's chest so that he can push him onto his back. With as much effort as he can muster, with gritted teeth to distract him from the pain, he moves so that he's holding himself up over Mudah, legs now either side of him, and it feels more natural. It feels like he isn't trying to limit himself, like they're just fooling around in their bed like they usually would.

\- - - - - - - -

He’s pressed flat upon his back, eyes slightly wide due to the fact that he’s suddenly on top of him. He should’ve just laid down, let him take care of him.

He lifts his shirt again, this time not so much because he wants him completely undressed. He needs to see blotches of dark green and red to remind himself of what he almost lost, and to remind himself not to lose track of what they’re doing. To take it easy. He shouldn’t, but he is, anyway.

He’s uncomfortably tight all of a sudden, with Hugh’s weight pressing on top of him. “Babe,” he mumbles, though he doesn’t ask anything of him. All he wants him to do is... move. He returns to the task of slipping his pants down, then, of slowly rubbing his hand over him.

\- - - - - - - -

"Stop talking."

He leans down as though to kiss him, but as Mudah's hand starts to palm him through his underwear, his head drops forwards onto Mudah's shoulder instead. He didn't realise how hard he actually was until Mudah starts to touch him, and his hips jerk forwards just a little in response.

It _hurts_ , but it feels so fucking good all at the same time, and he _loves_ being touched by him so it makes it all worth it. "Babe...Baby..." He murmurs against his neck, turning his head to the side a little more so that he can press breathy kisses against his skin. "That feels so fucking good." As he speaks, his teeth catch on skin, on his ear lobe, and is followed up by more desperate kisses.

\- - - - - - - -

Okay. He can do that. He can stay quiet, though his voice makes it harder- and then the way he is kissing him, as if he is water and he is a man on a desert. It’s fitting. Hugh needs him. Badly. More than Mudah needs Hugh.

His breath catches, but his hands work expertly. This he has done many times before, he enjoys it, he _loves_ it. Though he lifts his hips a little to rut against him, he focuses on slipping his hand into his underwear, wrapping his fingers around him. He slides his hand slightly.

He wants to say something. But the command is there. So he only bites his lip and looks at him through his lashes, as if seeking approval, encouragement, too.

\- - - - - - - -

At this rate, it's not going to take him long to finish.

His breathing is heavy, hot breath against Mudah's neck, and there's only so much more of this that he can take. Apparently, he needed this more than he thought he did, because he can't even think about reciprocating right now. It's selfish, and he'll come to realise that later, but for now, he just needs to _get off_. He needs to scratch that itch.

His hips jerk against Mudah's hand, and he bites down against his neck now, and he's so fucking _close_. "Please," he _begs_ , because he needs the release. He needs Mudah to take care of him, just for now.

\- - - - - - - -

Allah— Hugh _begs_ to him.

Mudah’s eyes widen slightly, and worry once again settles in, the anchor dragging him down and down as always, and all he can do is run his hand along his cock. He can do this for him. Hugh has given him so much, it is the least he can do, really.

Still, he groans when his teeth sink into his neck, and he realises he can probably jerk it off later, but right now he’s running his hand over him, and swipes his thumb just the way he likes it. _Okay_.

\- - - - - - - -

That's what does it, in the end.

Mudah knows _just_ what he likes, just how to get him off, and the knowledge that he is that attuned to his wants and needs is what finally pushes Hugh over the edge. He comes, _hard_ , in his underwear, It takes enough out of him that his arms can't quite hold him up anymore, and he slumps off to the side, because he doesn't want to drop his entire body weight directly onto Mudah.

"... _Fuck_." He presses soft kisses against Mudah's shoulder, because that's the only place that he can reach right now.

\- - - - - - - -

He squeezes his eyes shut, because his own hard on is sort of painful and uncomfortable, but- otherwise exhales quietly and wipes his hand on his own underwear. He turns his head to meet Hugh’s, smells antiseptic and his cologne and sweat from the night before.

“You should sleep,” he whispers, now that he is done. Now that he allows himself to talk to him. “I’ll be here. I’m not leaving. Okay?”

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't want to go to sleep, not yet. He has other things on his mind, and after trailing it down his body, Hugh's hand sneaks down into Mudah's underwear.

"Don't wanna sleep yet," he murmurs, as his fingers curl easily around Mudah's length. He's tired, so damn tired that he could drift off right now if he just closed his eyes, but he doesn't. Instead he shifts, so that he can press his lips softly against Mudah's as he begins to stroke him slowly.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is surprised, to say the least. There's a protest that will never see the light of day at the tip of his tongue. He doesn't want him to stop. He doesn't want him to let go of him, and he lifts his hips and kisses back as he slowly jerks him off.

It's not going to take any longer, especially if he keeps reminding himself of how his thighs felt, hard and warm, over him. He catches Hugh's lip with his teeth, though his movements are slow, almost lethargic. He wants to come quick, but there is no rush either.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh breaks the kiss, pulling back a little so that he can look him directly in his eyes. "You're so fucking hot." He's never really noticed how much he _doesn't_ curse, until it comes to situations like this, because it feels like every other sentence has some variant of the word 'fuck' in it.

"I'm gonna make you fall apart in my hands." He goes back in to kiss him again. It's slow, and it's _filthy_ , all tongue and teeth and promises of intimacy. "You're gonna come for me," he says against his mouth, picking up the speed of his strokes just a little, twisting his hand as it travels his length.

\- - - - - - - -

“Wh-“ but fuck, he forgets how much of a turn on this is, the cursing and the promises that are eventually fulfilled; the side of him that lets go just enough, not entirely, and just wants _satisfaction_. Mudah looks at him, but the strokes on his length make him close his eyes and his mouth fall open.

And he arches his back when he comes, quiet whining and cursing spilling from his lips. He’s his’, as promised. He’s falling apart and doesn’t want to be picked up. Not just yet.

He catches his breath, lifting his hand to Hugh’s lips. He traces their outline, wordlessly, so gentle, he’s tired and he’s being careful but mostly he’s tired, and he can see Hugh is too. He can probably sleep forever- as long as he’s by his side.

\- - - - - - - -

As tired as he is, Hugh presses soft kisses against Mudah's fingers, before he lifts his own hand to his mouth and just straight up licks it clean. He's shameless about it too, dragging his tongue along each digit before he leans in to kiss him once more. Just long enough that Mudah can probably taste himself on his tongue.

And then it's over and he pulls back, enough that he can rest his head on Mudah's shoulder and finally let his eyes slide shut.

Yeah, he really pushed himself. He _needs_ the sleep now, and it's winning out over his need to make sure that Mudah gets some sleep too. He manages to get out one more kiss against his shoulder before he passes out entirely.

 


	10. Chapter 10

He remembers turning, at some point, to make sure Hugh was sound asleep. That he was indeed there, alive, safe and sound.

He is not young anymore, and a sleepless night takes its toll on him, even when he wakes hours later, after what has been likely the longest he's slept since he left his parents' house. There's also the fact that he has not showered, he has not changed his clothes, and when he runs his tongue over his teeth he wrinkles his nose and tastes _everything_.

He gets up to brush them. And promptly returns to bed.

He promised he'd stay at his side, and that's what he's going to do. He doesn't want to repeat what happened when Omar was around. Right now a long and arduous process begins, one he isn't quite sure how he's going to handle, but he is certain of one thing. He wants to do this. He wants to help him, as hard as it may be. This is what his love entails after all.

There's the faint sound of children laughing outside. The purr of a car driving past their street, sunlight streaming through the window. There's a world out there, and there's a world in their bedroom. When Hugh wakes he is staring at their curtains, and slowly he brings himself back from his daydreams to their reality.

"Hey."

\- - - - - - - -

It was almost like a light switch being turned off and then on again.

The transition between being awake, and then asleep, and then awake again was almost instantaneous, though it takes him a little longer to fully reach consciousness. His eyes open slowly, and Mudah is _there_ , and that makes him feel good. He reaches out for him, taking hold of his hand, just to have that tactile connection.

"G'mornin'..." His voice is sleep rough, but he sounds rested. "What time is it?"

It looks light outside, but he can't tell whether it's morning or afternoon. All he knows, is that Mudah looks good in this light, in the golden glow the streams in through a small gap in the curtains.

Shit, he should've called work, let them know that he'll be working from home for the next week or so. Maybe Mudah's done it for him, which would take some explaining, but they'll figure out a way around it.

\- - - - - - - -

“I don’t know,” Mudah admits, not sheepish but certainly groggy, so his voice is small. He doesn’t know what time it is, and doesn’t care. Maybe just today he is not led by trivial matters such as time. There’s just Hugh’s hand in his own.

He turns to his side, to face Hugh, buries half of his face in the very comfortable pillow, and wriggles his legs beneath the sheets until they’re tangled with Hugh’s.

He hasn’t called work. He’s been sleeping for hours– it crossed his mind, but. This only made him realise there are more important things than an office. He _will_ call them. Just not right now. And if they’ve called him to ask where he’s been? He hasn’t noticed.

“Do you want breakfast?” Or lunch, or whatever, “water?”

\- - - - - - - -

"No," because funnily enough, he's not all that hungry right now. He probably should be, but for the time being, he's just content to stay here for a little while longer. They can get food in a little while, when they're more awake and Hugh has satisfied his urge for a morning cuddle.

Using Mudah's hand, he pulls him a little closer, curling up against him as he kisses him softly, slowly, lovingly. There's no intent behind this kiss, nothing that he's trying to get out of him right now, it's just a kiss to show his love and appreciation for the man laying in bed with him, for everything that he's done since last night.

"Let's just...Lay here for a while."


	11. Chapter 11

It’s early, so he doesn’t know if there’s going to be anyone home. He doesn’t ask Mudah because –well, he just doesn’t. He’s not quite ready to pick up the phone and ask him what _that_ is about. He called him _habibi_ , so this is more than economical interest. Not that he ever though Mudah capable of that. The man’s too sweet for that.

He doesn’t ask Mudah because he enjoys annoying him. But no one needs to know that.

He’s not late for work, technically, because this _is_ work. But he’s prepared to delve into this man’s personal life because that is his brother living with him, apparently. And he’s not going to admit he’s a little jealous. Mostly, he’s worried. When Hugh opens the door, he does not hide the wariness from his gaze. But he is a man of medicine, and as such takes his hat off as a greeting, and tilts his head.

“Mr. Bennett. I hope I am not interrupting. I wanted to check on you. You _do_ remember me, yes?” 

\- - - - - - - -

There's a knock on the door, and Hugh has a brief moment of ' _don't open it_ ', before he realises that he's being stupid. It's been a week now, since the incident, and admittedly, it had taken him a couple of days to get used to the idea of being alone in the house. It was pathetic, really, but he's over it now.

He's _fine_.

It takes him a little longer than usual to get off of the sofa, because his ribs are still sore, but they're lot better. The bruising apparently isn't all that bad, and should be fully healed within a couple of weeks. But he doesn't have a couple of weeks, so he'll have to go see his doctor and get himself signed off so he can go back to work.

Lo and behold, when he opens the door, there stands a doctor. "Sorry, I can't quite place your face..." He's messing, and he stands aside a little so that Omar can come inside. "Please, come in."

\- - - - - - - -

Well, at least he’s funny. He murmurs a quiet thanks, and _now_ that this man is no longer wheezing from injured ribs he takes a moment to look around. “Wonderful home, Mr. Bennett.” There’s an underlying question there, but maybe there’s going to be questions in everything he says or does around Hugh Bennet.

First, however, he looks at him and nods. Some of his professional demeanour slips when he smiles, boyish and clearly glad he hasn’t died just yet. “You look better. How are you feeling?”

Oh, right. He puts his hat on the hanger, because his mother has taught him manners even if he forgets them sometimes- which brings a whole other subject at hand, but first he wants to make sure he’s doing good. The wound on his forehead is healing nicely. That one was the one that worried him the most.

“Is akh– is my brother around?”

\- - - - - - - -

Omar compliments his home, and he thanks him, before moving back to the sofa so that he can sit down. Even though he's feeling better, he still can't stand up for too long because it puts a tension on his ribs if he holds himself in just the wrong way. "I feel fine. A little sore, but I could be worse."

The subject comes around to Mudah, and Hugh shakes his head. "No, he's working. Which, really, is where I should be." He's a feeling a little stir crazy, if he's honest. He can work from here, of course he can, but he doesn't like to. This is his home, and he likes to keep his home life and his work life separate, and he finds that he can't concentrate here. He needs to be in his office, where he can be free from distractions.

"Sorry, if you're here to see him. He won't be back for another few hours yet."

\- - - - - - - -

“No? No,” Omar follows him into the living room and now he is _definitely_ jealous of Mudah’s home. Or Mr. Bennett’s? Their home, a little voice supplies. “No, I actually came here to talk to you.”

Which won’t be easy, but unlike Mudah, speech comes easier to Omar. He sits on the chair in front of him, crosses his leg and steeps his fingers together. “I can sign you off so you can return to your work. If you want to. If you are ready, I don’t see why you shouldn’t go back,” _to Mudah_ , he thinks. “You must be tired of being here all the time. I would not be able to handle it.”

And now that that is out of the way. “What is my brother to you, Mr. Bennett?” If he comes off a little confrontational- it’s because he is.

\- - - - - - - -

"Great," he rests a cold hand on his ribs, because it feels _nice_. The cool touch of skin-on-skin soothes the slight ache better than a cold compress can, because he can curl his fingers around himself in just the right way and mould them to his own body in a way that settles him a little.

And then he feels unsettled, because Omar comes straight for him with a question that he doesn't want to answer. But he doesn't let it visibly shake him, he remains stoic because he's _good_ at that. He knows how to maintain his composure in front of clients, and Omar is basically a stranger, even if he is Mudah's brother, so it's not difficult.

Except he looks _so_ much like him, but he doesn't let it affect him, because they're also so very different, and this isn't him. This isn't Mudah. This won't affect him.

"We're friends," he says simply.

\- - - - - - - -

“ _Ugh_ ,” and he doesn’t regret that expression, because he is offended that Hugh is taking him for granted, or maybe he thinks Omar is an idiot. There’s been enough people calling him an idiot, both to his face and behind his back, for him to stand it from _him_. Omar’s brow twitches with annoyance.

This isn’t Omar Nassar, the doctor, anymore. This is Mudah’s brother.

“ _Habibi_. He called you that. You know what that means? Bet you don’t. You white men are the same. I’m asking _you_ because I want to make sure he’s safe here, with you. That he’s not going to go and get beat up like you did. Try again, Mr. Bennett. What is my brother to you?”

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't think Omar is an idiot, far from it in front. But he'd be forgiven to try and protect himself or not. Mudah's brother or not, Hugh has a duty to make sure that nothing's going to ruin what he has here. He doesn't know this guy at all, even if Mudah had called him after the mugging, if he'd been the first person that he'd called.

 _Habibi_.

There it is again, and he hadn't thought to ask. He hadn't been coherent enough to realise that Omar had heard Mudah say it, and it certainly throws a wrench in the works. He tries not to bristle, at the accusation that he isn't going to keep Mudah safe, but he definitely straightens up a little where he sits. "He's safe here. I got mugged, Dr. Nassar. It could've happened anywhere, and it just so happened that it took place 20 minutes away from where we live. Don't insult me by suggesting I sought it out."

But again, he hasn't really answered the question.

\- - - - - - - -

Omar crosses his arms, takes a deep breath, because maybe his brother would be a little upset if he attacked him like he wants to. Though he wears a suit, it is obvious he has well defined muscles. Maybe it’s to intimidate a little. And he purses his lips, not unlike Mudah does.

He wants an answer because he wants to hear it from him. “Habibi means ‘my love’, Mr. Bennett. My brother is...” no no, he won’t underestimate Mudah, “I don’t want him getting hurt.” And he doesn’t just mean in a mugging, or in something more motivated by hate. He wants to know if Mr. Bennett is a man he can trust, but so far he’s not giving a really good impression. To him.

So now Omar stares back, and waits for him to speak.

\- - - - - - - -

Christ, it's so _brazen_.

Mudah had called him that, had called him 'my love', in front of his brother without a second thought. So maybe there's something to this, something that tells him that Omar can be trusted. That he _knows_ the one thing that Mudah has been trying to hide from everyone, that's Hugh's also been trying to hide about himself.

"Your brother is safe here," he repeats. "He's safe here, with me. Nothing's going to hurt him, I'll make sure of it." He should say it, he should just come out and say it, because he _wants_ to. He's sick and tired of hiding it, hiding who he is, hiding the fact that he loves so _strongly_ and he just can't tell anyone about it. "I'll _always_ make sure he's safe." It's as close as he feels comfortable getting to saying that he'll be with Mudah for good, for life, because that's his intention.

Shit, that sure is something.

\- - - - - - - -

It’s the sort of sincerity he wasn’t expecting at this point, but one that is a pleasant surprise. Something shifts in Omar’s expression, because at least there’s no longer tension around his lips. Not a lot he can say to that. But. He’s infinitely grateful. Not that he’ll tell him.

“... Okay.”

He shrugs. It’s too much emotion and too much intensity all of a sudden, and he’s relieved for Mudah, he is. Which brings him to his next point, before he gives him his permit to return to his office and leaves.

“Well. We’re having a little thing at my old folks’. It’s my mother’s birthday. Next week, but we want to celebrate this weekend, so we can be together.” His face is blank. “You’re coming, right.”

It’s not a request, more of a command. Omar has never been one to sugarcoat things, despite what he does for a living. Maybe _because_ of it. He doesn’t wait for Hugh to reply. “It will be nice.”

\- - - - - - - -

"I'm sure it will be."

But he doesn't know if he wants to be there to see how nice it'll be. He's been invited by Mudah's brother, so there's assumption there that their family is going to be...Okay with everything. That's it not going to be weird for Mudah to show up at his mother's birthday party with his boss, who he just so happens to be living with. But it might be, and he doesn't want to give the woman a heart attack on her birthday.

"But I'll wait and see if Mudah invites me. I appreciate the invitation, don't get me wrong, but if he doesn't want me to be there, then he won't ask me, and I'm not going to go because you asked me to. I'm sure you understand." He won't bring it up to him either, because he doesn't want it to look like they've gone behind his back.

\- - - - - - - -

“Psh. I haven’t told him. _We_ haven’t told him, I was planning to do that today,” because he had expected his brother to stay by this man’s side, nursing him back to health, or whatever. Possibly doing other things. He sucks in a breath and unfolds his arms– he doesn’t want to think about that, and he really should be going.

“But sure, suit yourself.” Suit yourself, the way Omar says it, means: you have personally offended me, my family, my cat, and my mother could die any day and she would have loved to meet you, but you didn’t want to go, so it’s fine, I don’t care. In any case, he adjusts his shirt, takes out his pad, and writes him a note.

He holds it out, and flashes him a smile that is more mischievous than polite. He doesn’t worry, because now he’s _never_ going to look at him as just another patient. “I’ll be seeing you soon, Mr. Bennett.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh gets to his feet, one hand gripping tight enough onto the arm of the sofa that his knuckles turn white, and the muscles of his forearm and bicep ripple noticeably under his skin; and he's wearing a t-shirt, so it's _noticeable_.

He takes the note from Omar, before folding it in half and slipping it into the back pocket of the tan-coloured slacks that he's wearing. He'll call work later, and let them know he'll be back in tomorrow, but it's not important right now. It can wait. He doesn't return Omar's smile, just moves to open the door for him.

"Thanks for stopping by, and for the note."


	12. Chapter 12

He receives the call while he’s at work.

_”_ _Your boyfriend is an idiot.“_

He doesn’t greet him like that, of course. He greets him as always, barking out nonsense and asking about his day. Then Omar mentions Hugh, and he feels like his whole world shifts and throws him off and he’s on edge throughout the whole day. He mentions their mother’s birthday too.

When he gets home, his mind is still repeating the entire conversation, like a broken record. He’s weighing the pros and cons, and the cons is that his mother will hate him if Mudah doesn’t show up. Obviously. So that pretty much settles it, but he wants to talk to Hugh about it anyways, because- it would be nice.

He tosses his shoes carelessly, so his feet make no sound as he pads across to the kitchen. “I’m home,” he announces anyway, before he grabs a glass of water for himself and loosens his tie.

What did he even _say_ to him-

Nope. He doesn’t want to think the worst right now. He’s fine just the way he is right now, sipping at cold water like a dying man in a desert.

\- - - - - - - -

He'd been having a light nap on the sofa when Mudah walks in through the front door. The book that he'd been reading, that had been resting on his chest, drops to the floor when he carefully sits up, and he's absolutely lost his place. It doesn't matter, he wasn't really too into the book anyway, it was just something to send him off to sleep.

He wanders through to the kitchen, which is where he finds Mudah. He walks up behind him, and he lightly takes the glass from him to set it down on the counter. His arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him back and against him, and he leans down a little to drop a soft kiss on the side of his neck.

"Afternoon, honey. How was your day? Sorry I didn't have dinner waiting on the table but I've just been _so_ busy tidying the house." There's a playful tone to his voice, and he enjoys this, enjoys the domesticity of it all. "Though, all jokes aside, I did have an interesting visitor stop by this morning."

\- - - - - - - -

There he is. Though he is not done with the glass of water he allows Hugh to do with him as he pleases. It’s what he likes most about coming home after all. Coming to him. He leans back against him, tilts his head aside so Hugh has more skin to kiss, if he wants to.

“Oh, you,” he knows he’s joking, but this is still so very new to him. So tender. It’s almost distracting from the fact that yes, he is very much aware of what he is talking about. Rather, who. And Mudah groans, his head lolling back slightly. “He called me. Said he’d dropped by.”

He loves his brother. But. “I’m– _so_ sorry about that. What did he say?”

\- - - - - - - -

He does, he takes the opportunity to tilt his head and place a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth, because that's what he can reach at the moment. It's enough, for now, because this is a tender moment, and he'll allow it to just be that.

"He asked about us. Asked what you are to me. Basically asked me what our relationship is. Wanted to know if I'd keep you safe." He tightens his arms around him just a little at the thought, at the insinuation that he isn't going to be able to keep Mudah safe. "I told him you'd always be safe with me, and I didn't exactly say anything explicitly, but...I think he got the gist of our relationship."

He rests his chin on Mudah's shoulder, and exhales slowly, purposefully. "I wanted to tell him. I think I almost did."

\- - - - - - - -

He feels his embrace tighten around him, so he places his hands over his’, runs his thumb across the veins that trail up to his wrist.

That his brother asked that makes him a little flustered. But the solemnity he speaks with makes him turn his head a little, and while he cannot see his eyes from this angle, he’s not willing to slip away from his embrace.

It sounds like a promise. One he can make too, and he forgets about his brother, at least while he purses his lips and presses a kiss to his cheek. He has never doubted that. There’s no one else he’d be this safe and comfortable and loved.

“I left home when I was very young because... I think my father knew, who I was. I couldn’t stand the looks he and my mother gave me. But with time she has become a more understanding person. Or maybe she is just old and tired. I believe I am lucky for that. Same with my siblings. It’s okay. You shouldn’t feel pressured to share anything you don’t want to share.”

\- - - - - - - -

"So they know? About you?" And yet Omar had still invited them to the birthday celebration, still expected them to be there under the assumption that it was going to be nice. Maybe he doesn't have to try and think of an explanation as to why he would be there, because maybe him just turning up would be answer enough.

He loosens his grasp just a little, so that he can turn Mudah in his arms and kiss him fully on the lips. Again, there's no intent behind it, even as he tightens his arms around him once more, and he holds him close.

"I love you. Habibi." The word feels strange on his tongue, but he likes it. Now that he knows what it means, he uses it easily. And he thinks that he'd like to learn more words for him, in his mother tongue. Maybe the party would be a good opportunity for him to learn some.

\- - - - - - - -

They know, but not the rest of his family, which admittedly makes his palm sweat a little. But then Hugh kisses him, and he smiles against his lips–

The word catches him off-guard. Mudah looks up at him, wide eyed, but so incredibly lovestruck that maybe he can laugh about this later. Even though their love is nothing to laugh at; this means so much to him. And his smile grows, and he tilts his head so he can kiss him again. Just a peck of the lips.

“Please tell me he didn’t say anything else that could’ve potentially embarrassed me. Or any swear words,” he laughs, then he takes in a deep breath, and nods. “Habibi. So. Do you want to go?”

\- - - - - - - -

"Don't worry, he didn't embarrass you, even if I definitely could have asked him to." He should have done, really. That would've been a great thing to tease him with later on, just to play with him a little, to make him laugh.

He's still not sure if he wants to go though, because it's a big commitment to take. Not only meeting his siblings, his parents, but his extended family too? That's a _really_ big thing, and he has to question whether he's ready for that yet.

But looking into Mudah's eyes, seeing that lovestruck look as he hears him say _habibi_ is enough to prove that, yes, he's ready for this. He's ready to make that commitment and integrate himself into their family.


	13. Chapter 13

It's loud.

This comes as no surprise to Mudah. Matter of fact, he looks in his element as soon as he crosses the threshold. But he is also nervous, because Hugh is tagging along, and he doesn't know how he's going to take all of this. He is calm because of him, too. Is it possible to feel everything at once?

His parents' house is not as big as their own. Mudah has sent enough money to them that they were able to move out of the apartment they grew in and into this neighborhood, but it is still old, and a little shabby, and _definitely_ crowded today. Could be worse though. He tells Hugh that is _has_ been worse. At least here they can pass undetected by most.

Rather, he can. Hugh? Not so much. He is taller, and, well.

There's some people that greet them almost right away. He tells them this is Nima's boyfriend -because they've all agreed this is better, even though he wants to tell them the truth, but he knows when to hide and when to show himself. Hugh understands. Nima understands, wherever she is. A handful eye him warily, but they're too busy talking (yelling) and eating, so he pays them little attention too.

"If they ask you to join them in their little games- don't."

He looks for his mother, and they tell him she's in the kitchen. So he threads through chairs and people, and there she is, stirring at a pot and talking to Omar. And Nima. When no one is looking, Mudah brushes his hand against Hugh's and gestures at him to follow.

\- - - - - - - -

This is a completely new experience for Hugh.

He's used to white people parties, where people mingle and talk quietly amongst themselves and drink and it's _trite_. He hates it, and it's why he so often refuses to go to birthday parties for his work colleagues. So this is...Something fresh. It's new, and exciting, and he's experiencing it with Mudah, which is pretty much exactly how he wants to experience new things from now on.

He gets distracted watching a couple of people dancing off in one corner, completely wrapped up in themselves and apparently having the time of their lives, and it makes him feel warm. The atmosphere in the room is _happy_ , and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, and why can't more get-togethers be like this? He's distracted until he feels Mudah's hand brush against his, and he turns in his direction to follow him. The urge to reach out and lock their fingers together is overwhelming, but he resists.

When they get into the kitchen, he recognises Omar immediately, and then catches sight of what must be the third Nassar sibling, his supposed girlfriend for the night. She's beautiful, truly, and good looks obviously run in the family. Any straight man would be lucky to be dating her. She turns, and catches sight of them, and it takes her all of a few minutes to give Mudah the most smug look she's ever mustered up in her life.

"You made it!" She makes as though she's going to walk up to him and hug him, but moves straight past him and throws her arms around Hugh's neck, kissing him fully on the lips. Before Hugh even gets a chance to react, she's pulling away and bumping her hip against Mudah's. "Akhi, you look terrible. You should really get a girlfriend to take better care of you."

\- - - - - - - -

And that does it. Everyone in the room who was eyeing Hugh with curiosity looks away, satisfied that this is obviously Nima's boyfriend, or frankly more embarrassed by the display of affection. And Mudah opens his mouth and quickly closes it, and gives his mother a look that screams for help, outraged by this.

"Okhti. Can you not-"

Omar skips to his side and bumps his hip against Mudah's too, and Mudah only looks up at Hugh, hoping, for the love of Allah, that this ends soon. "Right. You've met Omar. This is Nima, my sister," unfortunately. "And-"

Salma hands over the spoon to another woman, who is helping her in the kitchen. She has dark, long hair, and her thick lips are curved into a warm but knowing smile, and she fixes her eyes on Hugh. She's smaller than him, of course. She's actually smaller than Mudah. Her voice is raspy and strong, like two stones colliding against one another. "You must be Mr. Bennett. I am very happy you came. Please, make yourself at home."

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh's still reeling a little from the fact that Nima just full-on kissed him, but he supposes that's the part he's playing tonight, so he steels himself, offering Mudah's mother a warm smile as she approaches. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Nassar." He takes hold of one of her hands with both of his, and brings it to his lips so that he can press a gentle kiss against the back of it before he lets go of it. "You have a lovely home. Thank you for inviting me."

Nima folds her arms across her chest and gives Mudah a _look_ , one that says 'did you really bring a fucking _disney prince_ in here?, before her gaze drifts back over to Hugh. She's never really asked Mudah what his type is, but this isn't what she imagined it would be. A tall, dark-haired, handsome white guy.

Huh.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah gives his sister a look that says _yes, did you really have to kiss him, you funky lesbian_ , and then he's dragged aside by Omar, who's preparing dessert, apparently. Baklava. Suddenly he doesn't feel so nervous. There's something about the smell of it that makes him smile, and he turns to look at Hugh.

He's busy with his mother, of course. The woman is almost picking him apart with her gaze, but not in a rude manner. She's curious as to what he's like. "Well... Omar told me that _Nima_ ," and it is obvious she is not talking about her daughter, but her son, "had met someone. I wanted to meet you. But please, please, have a seat, or you can help me finish cooking."

"Ummi, you should really sit down-"

" _Nonsense_ ," she snaps, "now, darling. Tell me about yourself, yes?"

\- - - - - - - -

Nima shrugs her shoulders, because it's just acting. As handsome as he is, she's strictly not into men whatsoever, so she has no interest in him. She moves to sit at the table, because she likes it when the men prepare food instead of her, so she's going to fully appreciate this opportunity to sit down and do nothing, pulling a glossy fashion magazine across the table towards her so that she can have a flick through it.

"Well, I can't say I'm that great of a cook, but I'll do my best. Just tell me what I need to do." He catches Mudah's gaze as he looks over from where Omar is making baklava, and smiles softly at him, before he turns his attention back to Salma. "I work in advertising on Madison Avenue, I like cats, and I _love_ -" Your son. "-homemade cooking."

\- - - - - - - -

They spend a solid hour finishing desert, Salma coordinating their cooking efforts despite being the woman everyone had gone to celebrate. It’s always been like this. Mudah’s father is having the time of his life with friends and family, and Salma wipes some sweat off her forehead every ten minutes because the work she is doing is... a lot.

Nima is playing her part. Mudah is thankful and also a little upset that he can’t quite do what she does. He knows it’s irrational. And then he gets dragged off to dance, and it had been so _long_ since he did. He’s not terrible, but eventually his limbs are too uncoordinated, he’s had too much beer.

(There’s some people who look at the beer with disdain. There’s others who hold a bottle, and look American in every way except they’re not.)

And it’s nice. It’s fun. He thinks Hugh is having a good time because he looks like he is. His mother has not stopped following him; or maybe he hasn’t stopped following her, who knows.

When their guests leave, the house is quiet. It is a mess, and he feels guilty for not cleaning up as much as he should, but Salma is having none of it and drags them all to the living room. It’s her celebration, and they will do what she wants. And that is, to sit down and take a break. Mudah happily complies.

His father is sound asleep -drunk, likely- on the sofa. He sits next to Hugh, and next to Hugh is Nima, the gremlin. Omar finds his spot on the floor, because he’s a little tipsy, but not enough to pass out like their father. He’s a chatty drunk. Unfortunately.

“Hey, Hugh,” he says, for like the third time in a row, “how’d you- I know you two work together. But how’d you _meet_?”

\- - - - - - - -

Nima's legs are curled up in Hugh's lap, and he's fine with that right now, because she's just stretching out and getting comfortable, and he's slightly drunk, so it doesn't really matter.. Her head rests on the arm of the sofa, hair cascading down the side, ends almost touching the floor.

His arm settles around Mudah's shoulders, and it feels _so_ good that he can do that now, that he doesn't have to worry about not touching him in case anyone sees. He wants to kiss him, but here's still not there yet, even though he's spent the entire night in their company. It's still a little difficult. But he turns his attention to Omar, and answers his questions, again, because he doesn't mind that.

"Well, we met at work, and we both ended up in the office late one night, and together we came up with an idea for a Polaroid camera." It feels like a lifetime ago now, and he still looks back on it so fondly. "Snap It, See It. That was all him."

"You're _kidding_." Nima lifts her head to look at the both of them, a incredulous look on her features. "That was _him_? Akhi, why didn't you tell us?"

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah’s head is swimming, pleasantly, and he feels like he can talk for hours on end, though that might also have to do with the fact that he is with people he has known his whole life, and they _know_ him too. The beer is helping, obviously.

Omar’s eyes are bulging out, and he blinks very slowly before he slaps his knee. “Wow, akht, you’re actually smart.”

“Omar,” Salma scolds, and looks at Hugh and her son with a combination of fondness and amazement.

“I dunno,” Mudah lifts his shoulders; he is being modest, of course. But there are also little details that often escape him; he focuses more on them, if they’re eating well, if they have enough money. But he meets Hugh’s fond gaze with his own, and slowly smiles. “I had good inspiration. I can’t take all the credit.”

Omar wrinkles his nose. “You two. Are so _sweet_.” And there it is again, that opening for them to bring out what they are into the light– to people that they can trust in. People Hugh can be himself with.

\- - - - - - - -

He squeezes Mudah's shoulder lightly, returns his soft smile with ease. "You're being modest," he points out. "He's incredible with photography, truly. I don't know how he does it."

He wonders if Mudah still has the polaroid photo from that night. He never saw it again in his office after what happened, but then he never really thought to look for it. Or ask about it, actually. Maybe he still has it, or maybe it ended up in the trash at some point. He's not sure. It's not overly important, but it would be nice if he still had it. Like a little memento to remind them where they started.

Snap it, see it.

It works so goddamn well.

Nima narrows her eyes slightly as she watches the two of them. Her gaze flicks over to Omar for a moment, before returning to them, and to her, it looks like they've forgotten that anyone else is in the room. They're wrapped up in their own little world, and it's kinda cute, but also she has to say it's gross because Mudah is her big brother, and that's the law. "I'd tell you two to just kiss already, but like, I've had _just_ enough wine that I might throw up."

\- - - - - - - -

These compliments feel good, here. Hugh is probably a little drunk too, so they don’t really notice how they’re looking at each other, and the looks the others are giving them. But they’re not like the people at the office, or the passing glances when they’re walking together on the street a little too close to each other, even though they’re careful. They always have to be.

No. Here Salma watches her son be in love with a man she has learned plenty from throughout the day, and who according to Omar, would do anything to keep him safe. To protect him. Isn’t that what every mother wants for their children? She places a hand over her chest, touched by the sight. “Alhamdulillah,” she whispers.

Not that they will hear her. Because Mudah’s eyes widen, and before he can say anything to his sister Omar quips in. “Hey Hugh, do you have any attractive sisters? Mine needs to get laid. She’s _jeaaaaalous_.”

Mudah shakes his head, leans up, and kisses Hugh’s cheek. It’s such an innocuous gesture– for them, at least. Not for the world outside. But they are protected from it here. That much is obvious. He grabs the hand that is on his shoulder, and lightly plays with his fingers.

Salma frowns at Nima. “Child! Don’t be rude.”

\- - - - - - - -

“ _Me_? Ummi!” But she decides on her own style of retribution, and takes off one of her slippers to throw it straight at Omar’s chest. She’d go for the head, but she knows what he’s like when he’s drunk, and she’d probably actually hit him.

Hugh pays attention to none of this. Not only is he still trying to get his head around the concept that they’re all fine with bringing up that Nima’s apparently into women, but Mudah just kissed him on the cheek in front of everyone and is now holding his hand.

He squeezes his hand lightly, purposefully, before leaning in to press a soft kiss against his lips, apparently feeling brave. His heart pounds against his ribcage the whole time.

Nima, of course, picks up on it immediately. “Can we all stop pretending he’s my boyfriend now? Honey you’re cute, but you’ve got all the wrong parts.”

\- - - - - - - -

Omar gasps, a little exaggerated, when the slipper connects to his chest. "Ummi, are you going to l-"

"You too! Seriously, in front of our guest!" And Salma reaches for her own slipper, but Omar is faster and he scurries away to the other end of the room. They are the reason Salma dyes her hair. Because they make her grow so many grey hairs. And because she is not young anymore, but she prefers to blame it on them.

Mudah continues to look at Hugh, and then- he kisses him. It's the happiest he's been. Nothing compares to the warmth spreading across his chest, to be sitting with the people he loves, and to see Hugh like this. He whispers to him, when he tilts his head a little, "told you it was going to be fun. Just ignore Nima."

"Yes," Salma sighs, "you can all drop the act." To Hugh, mostly, she says: "I don't want anyone here to feel like they have to pretend. Allah has blessed me with three beautiful children who love different from Yousef and I. Now I believe He gives me a fourth."

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh laughs quietly, a deep rumble in his chest that has Nima moving her feet out of his lap, a light shiver running through her body. “That tickled my feet, and that was _super_ weird. Don’t ever do it again.” She levels him with a serious look, that just has him laughing again, but her feet are out of his lap so she doesn’t care.

He’s still smiling when Salma starts speaking, but by the end of it, it looks a little plastered on. Her words make him think of his own parents, who he hasn’t spoken to in years due to the fact that his father is deeply homophobic. He’s not sure about his mother, but his father made it pretty clear that he wasn’t welcome in the house. He’s just lucky that his brothers aren’t that way inclined and rallied around him.

Mudah is lucky, _so_ lucky, that he has parents who love him unconditionally, and Hugh can feel a lump forming in his throat. He tries to clear it, but it’s tight, and holy shit he needs some fresh air. “Excuse me,” he says quickly, getting to his feet, pulling his hand from Mudah’s grasp, and heading straight out the front door, which clicks shut behind him.

Nima frowns at the door, as though it’s personally offended her, before she looks back at Salma. “I think you upset him.”

\- - - - - - - -

He has to tell Salma that no, he is not angry, and then he has to tell Omar that no, he has nothing against Allah. He gives his mother a quick kiss, promising to refund, and follows after Hugh. The door is slightly open behind him.

The air is warm outside. He finds Hugh there, of course– he knows him too well, and can tell what is wrong by the slump of his shoulders. “Habibi, I– are you okay?” Mudah asks anyway, and gently touches his arm.

(He is drunk, but that doesn’t mean his mind stops doing that thing; where it launches a thousand scenarios that went wrong and thus upset Hugh, and then a couple more where he excuses himself and leaves his parents’ house altogether. It’s ridiculous. But. He is drunk).

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh’s sat on the front step, leaning forwards slightly with his forearms resting on his knees, and a lit cigarette held loosely between the index and middle finger of one hand. He sighs heavily as he hears Mudah’s voice, and brings a hand up to rub absentmindedly at the small scar on his brow; which could have been a lot worse, but Omar is a great doctor.

“Sorry,” he apologises, and says nothing more for the time being, so that he can take a slow drag of his cigarette. As he exhales, he closes his eyes for a few moments, before he sighs and turns his head a little so that he can look at Mudah. “I didn’t upset her, did I?”

Maybe he’s purposely dodging the subject, and it’s not that he doesn’t trust Mudah, and doesn’t want him to know how he’s feeling. It’s just that he’s a little drunk, and if he verbalises it, he knows that it’s going to sting even more than it already does.

\- - - - - - - -

This is clearly upsetting him. So Mudah sits down next to him, though a little clumsier than usual, his foot almost slipping from beneath him. He almost asks for a cigarette, but he doesn’t _need_ it right now.

“She’s just worried,” tremendously, he might add, but he also doesn’t want to make things worse for him. Faint music begins playing, and he can’t tell if it’s from inside his home or the next door neighbors. Otherwise, it’s so peacefully quiet. So unlike Madison Avenue.

He wrings his sleeve, tilts his head to get a better look at him.

“My father wasn’t happy at first. She had a rough time too. And then Omar told them he was seeing someone, and that it was serious so he preferred to follow my footsteps and leave, and then Nima–“ where is he going with this? He rubs at his face, numb and a little warm. “I don’t know. I think they realised... we weren’t going to change for them. You know?”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is baring his soul here, and Hugh listens intently. It must be nice, he thinks, to be able to rely so solidly on the fact that his parents will always be there for him. He misses that, misses being able to count on them for anything. Despite his job, and how well he’s doing for himself, he’s considered the family disappointment.

“I haven’t seen mine in 5 years. My father threatened to tell Debbie that I was queer if I ever showed my face around him again. I guess that doesn’t matter too much now, but it’s not just Debbie that he might tell. And my mother stays by his side. She’d never speak up against him. I think my brothers talk to her about me sometimes, keep her updated on how I’m doing.”

He shakes his head, and takes one last inhale from his cigarette before he stubs it out on the concrete by his foot. “I guess it all just hit me a little too hard, what with Salma being so gracious. And alcohol doesn’t help either.”

\- - - - - - - -

He hates Hugh’s father. It surprises him how quick he is to harbour such an immense disgust at someone he has never met. At the same time, it really doesn’t. He, like hundreds of people that think like him, is a danger. And he is an idiot, because he doesn’t think anyone with a brain could ever hate Hugh.

Sometimes Mudah has to pinch himself so that he knows Hugh is real, and not a figment of his imagination. He’s too good for him.

“Sorry,” he says. For his mother being a little overwhelming, for what has happened to him, horrible things he is so undeserving of. He lets his head fall on Hugh’s shoulder, though a little careless and his jaw connects against hard muscle, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “You don’t talk about your brothers a lot. D’ya reckon they’ll like me. Sometime. Maybe?”

He doesn’t want to impose, doesn’t want Hugh to feel like he _has_ to introduce him to his family. He winces, and covers his face with his hand.

\- - - - - - - -

He tilts his head a little, so that he can rest his head on top of Mudah's. Strands of his hair tickle at his cheek, but he doesn't mind too much. It grounds him a little, reminds him that there is more than what he's going eating at him in his head. Mudah is something solid, something tangible, that he can touch and hold.

He reaches between them, finds Mudah's hand and takes hold of it. He doesn't care, right now, if anyone sees. It's late, and there's not really many people around. The lights are off in most of the houses he can see, so he doubts that anyone's going to venture past any time soon.

"I don't see them all that much. We used to spend more time together, years ago, before everything went to shit with our parents. But we make sure to get together at least once a year, have dinner with our families." This'll be the first year that he doesn't bring Debbie and the kids. It's weird to think about, but it's a step forward to living out his true life. "But I want you to meet them. I think they'd like you."

\- - - - - - - -

And a tiny choked sound escapes his lips. Though Hugh's head rests on top of his' and he holds his hand, it's still _nerve-wracking_. He knew his family would love Hugh. That is why he didn't worry about this (*much).

But he can't say he's not curious. He considers Debbie a friend, if they like her, they can like him too. And he blames that stupid thought on alcohol, because that's how things work. At all. He's overthinking again.

"I mean. I'd like to meet them too."

Mudah lifts Hugh's hand to his lips, exhales and looks up at the darkening sky. _They're going to think I'm a freak_. But he does want to meet him, and the fact that they're discussing this makes his heart skip a beat. "Snap it, see it," he whispers in awe.

\- - - - - - - -

"Snap it, see it," he repeats easily.

In the quiet darkness, the only light comes from the slightly open door behind them, and the soft glow of the streetlamps across the street. It's peaceful here, being sat like this, and he can forget about everything for a little while.

They can just _be_.

Although they should probably head back inside at some point soon. He doesn't want to be rude, especially not when he's been welcomed in so warmly. "Should we...?" He glances back over his shoulder at the door, before he places a couple of fingers undearneath Mudah's jaw and tilts his head up just a little. He's feeling bold, apparently, because he leans in and kisses him softly, despite the fact that they're outside, despite the fact that anyone _could_ walk past at any moment.

But right now, he doesn't give a fuck.

\- - - - - - - -

“We should.” It’s as if everything rushes in, once more, when he asks that. Inside, Salma and Nima laugh, and then Hugh tilts his head back and kisses him.

It doesn’t cross his mind that they’re not supposed to, because how could anything like this be wrong? Something that started with only as four words; how far they’ve come. He still keeps that picture he took that night. It’s certainly not the best he’s taken. Not the only one. But it’s his favourite.

So no, he doesn’t think twice when he responds. A tender kiss that tastes like cheap beer and traces of honey. This is one of his favourite kisses too, he decides.

He pulls back, pecks his cheek and stands up. His limbs feel too heavy and clumsy, and they really need to sober up, so maybe he’ll grab some leftovers before they leave. “Hey,” aims to take Hugh’s hand but only links their index fingers. It’s fine. “Thank you.”

\- - - - - - - -

He curls his finger gently around Mudah's, before he gets to his own feet. "No. Thank you." And he means it too, because he doesn't think that he would've really come out of his shell in regards to his sexuality as much as he did tonight without Mudah and his family's help.


	14. Chapter 14

They're stood outside Anthony's home, and Hugh can see them all through the window. Anthony, his wife, their four kids. Mark, on his own, as usual, but he looks happy, like he always does. There's no sign of Jack yet, which is probably for the best. That would be throwing Mudah straight into the deep end, except he has no life raft and he can't swim.

Jack is...Damnit, he's his brother, and he loves him, but he's an absolute nightmare, and that's not an exaggeration.

Hugh had told Anthony that he was planning on bringing Mudah, and he'd been supportive of the idea. Though he then went on to mention whether or not Mudah knew how much trouble Jack could be when he tried his hardest, and that was the part Hugh was most worried about. It's not like he thinks his brother would do anything maliciously, but it's a little startling for people meeting him for the first time if he's not on his best behaviour.

"Are you sure you want to do this? You don't have to. Really, I wouldn't blame you for backing out."

\- - - - - - - -

"D-don't be ridiculous, habibi."

The fact that he stutters is a sign of Mudah's apprehension. He _shouldn't_ be worried, it's not like Hugh's about to ring the doorbell, drop him off to his luck and run. Oddly enough, he doesn't feel the way he did when he met Debbie. He wishes she was there, too, but he understands why she isn't.

He's like this because, unlike Hugh, his social skills are _terrible_. He has no charm, and by the looks of it all the Bennett siblings have that natural air to them; like they can strip you clean of your cash and you'd be thanking them for that. And Mudah wants to make a good impression. Perhaps the best impression he's ever made. Forget job interviews.

(He was actually pretty confident, when he applied for his current job. Only because he had a good portfolio, and if there's something he can flaunt and talk about for hours, it's that.)

So he adjusts his sweater, and with all the courage he can gather, steps towards the door and rings. Not even a second later and he's looking at Hugh, raking long fingers through thick curls -he should've gotten a haircut, _fool_ \- and adjusting his collar. "How do I look?"

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh takes his hand, to stop him from messing with his hair again. "You look great. I promise." And he does, even though Hugh might be a little bit biased because he thinks that he looks good all the time.

He raises his hand to knock on the door, but before his fist can connect with the dark wood - which matches the exterior of the house perfectly, and of course it does, that just screams Anthony and Karen all over - the door swings open and there stands Anthony.

He's a couple of inches shorter than Hugh, but he's just as imposing. Steely blue eyes regard the both of them, but that hard exterior breaks as a smile spreads across his lips and he pulls Hugh into an embrace. "Good to see you, little brother." He pulls out of the hug, hands resting on Hugh's shoulders for a moment as he gives him a once over. "You look well." And then his eyes drift over to Mudah, and his hands drop from Hugh's shoulders, so that he can offer him a hand. "And you must be the reason why. Mudah, is it?"

"Lay off, Tony."

"What? I'm just making conversation."

\- - - - - - - -

So this is Tony– Mudah is suddenly curious about their parents, what they look like and who they look like the most, but then he remembers his undying hatred for his father, and shrugs it off. In any case, there’s no denying. This is Hugh’s brother.

Oh, shit, right. He clears his throat and shakes his hand, aware of his grip, aware of the way he smiles, all of a sudden, because that’s what people do when they want to be nice and show their partner’s boyfriend that they’re _very_ happy to be here even though their heart’s about to leap out of their chest. “Yeah. That’s me!”

Did he just admit–

“I mean. I’m Mudah. It’s nice to meet you,” he says, before any of them can say anything else that might want to make himself hide in the lawn’s bushes.

\- - - - - - - -

"Likewise." He gives Hugh a _look_ , and Hugh shakes his head in return. Whatever question he'd been asked goes verbally unanswered, but Tony apparently gets the response that he was looking for. "Well, come in. Mark's already inside."

"And the other one?"

"Not yet. Is it bad that I'm secretly hoping he doesn't turn up?"

Hugh can't help but laugh at that. "You say that every year, and every year he shows up." His arm settles easily around Mudah's waist, and he leads him inside. Ever since Salma's birthday celebrations, he's started being just a little more open about his relationship with Mudah. Not out in the open, where people who shouldn't see could be privy to it, but in private, amongst people that he trusts and cares about. "We're talking about Jack. I need you to pray to Allah that he _doesn't_ show up tonight," he says under his breath to Mudah.

\- - - - - - - -

That look between the Bennett siblings does little to appease him, but then he’s led inside, and his eyes roam across the walls and the decorations and the furniture. None of it clashes, and everything is, of course, very elegant.

“Who’s–“ never mind, his question is already answered, and he regards Hugh with a raised eyebrow. “You’ve met _my_ brother. How bad can he be?”

Tony, Mark, Jack. Hugh. He smiles to himself, drifting away enough to wonder if that was on purpose or fortunate coincidences across the years, and also goes through a list of short Egyptian names before he shakes his head.

“I want to meet the whole family. All the brothers.” And children! He can hear children laughter somewhere. That makes him perk up a little.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah hasn't actually met Jack yet, which is why he can be forgiven for thinking that it's a good idea to do so. Because sure, Omar can be a bit much sometimes, but Jack is...Something else entirely. Either way, Mudah will soon learn his mistake, even if it has to be the hard way, because Hugh tried to warn him and he didn't listen.

"Go on through," Tony points towards where the dining room is, where Mark is keeping an eye on the kids, and the sound of laughter is louder now. "We'll be through in a few minutes." And then he disappears into the kitchen.

It actually works out quite well that Mudah is getting to meet each of his brothers one at a time, because it means he gets to see what they're really like before they all get together and things get a little bit chaotic. "Mark's great. You'll like Mark," Hugh tells him as he leads him through to the dining room, where Mark is currently on his hands and knees, with a child on his back, as another child laughs uncontrollably at this sight, but they immediately stop when they see who's entered the dining room.

There are a couple of shrieks of ' _Uncle Hugh!_ ' and Hugh goes down onto one knee to prepare for the onslaught of the two children running directly at him. Whilst he's dealing with that, Mark gets to his feet, thankful for the respite, and makes his way over too. "I'm too old for this, and yet here I am, still encouraging it. But enough about that. Welcome! I'm so glad to finally meet you." And without any warning, he's hugging Mudah, and Hugh...Probably should've warned him about that, actually.

\- - - - - - - -

The sight of Mark is amusing, and then Hugh is run over by two little kids, which makes him laugh– and then that laughter is cut off by two strong arms around him. “H-hello,” Mudah says, but Mark can probably hear his smile in his voice.

Really, Hugh must be exaggerating, because if this is what Mark and Tony are like, and Hugh is a darling, then he sees no reason to worry. He reaches up and lightly pats Mark’s shoulder. He doesn’t mind the attention, though he does feel a little odd being held like this by anyone who isn’t Hugh. “I’m happy to be here.”

When he lets go of him, he blinks, and finally looks up at him. Yes, he sees the similarities. And they’re all so _tall_. “You don’t look too old.”

\- - - - - - - -

Mark pulls back, settling his hands on Mudah's shoulders to look at him, and apparently that's a thing that they all do. Their mother had called it the 'Bennett appraisal', and it's something that they also do when they haven't seen each other in a long time. Hugh seems to be the only one of them who _doesn't_ do it, but maybe that's because he doesn't spend as much time with them as they spend with each other.

"He's handsome, Hugh." He says with a grin, before he looks back at Mudah. "...Sorry! Look at me, talking about you like you're not stood in front of me." His hands drop from his shoulders, and he opens his mouth to say something else.

And then It Happens.

From outside, a car horn sounds, the opening 12 notes of I Wish I Was In Dixieland.

Tony pokes his head around the door, just as his daughter collects up her kids, kisses him on the cheek. "Bye Daddy, Uncle Hugh, Uncle Mark." And she swiftly exits through the back door. Tony watches her go for a moment, before he looks back at Hugh and Mark. "Did you hear that? Tell me I hallucinated that."

"You didn't," Hugh says, as he straightens up, and settles his arm around Mudah's shoulders. "Brace yourself."

\- - - - - - - -

There's still a lot of physical contact going on, that's just how the Bennetts are, still he can't help but slowly and carefully lean away, like a cat -one that doesn't quite take to being touched for longer than a handful of seconds by anyone who's not Hugh. It's amazing, really, and quite a thing to watch. He's not exactly an outsider. But he's so terribly new at this.

Mudah doesn't even get a chance to greet Tony's daughter, or her kids -his grandkids, then- before there's a horrible horn outside, and that must be the dreaded brother. He didn't think much of it. But their reactions are enough to make him, as Hugh so kindly puts it, brace himself. What exactly _is_ he supposed to be bracing for, exactly?

He tilts his head to a side, curious, brow slightly furrowed. "Okay?"

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh presses a light kiss against Mudah's cheek, before he pulls away and adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, makes sure they're buttoned. He doesn't know why he bothers, because Jack isn't going to care about how presentable he looks, but it's one less thing for him to go for.

There's no knock on the door, Jack doesn't do that. He just waltzes right in like he owns the place, and heads straight for the dining room because he can see Tony lingering in the doorway. But before he can even say anything, he's interrupted. "I tried to tell him about that god awful car horn, but for once, he got his own way." She's about the same height as Mudah, blonde, and doesn't look like she takes any of Jack's shit.

And she doesn't.

"Baby, you say that like most of Tony's neighbours ain't big ol' racists anyway. I'm just appeasing to them so they don't complain later when the party gets outta hand."

"The party will _not_ get out of hand. This is a dinner, not a frat party." Tony tells him.

"For you," he replies, and then his eyes meet Mudah's. "Who's this pretty boy?"

\- - - - - - - -

It _does_ cross his mind that maybe, as an Egyptian man, he's in a very odd neighborhood indeed, but going outside doesn't sound too bad all of a sudden. He blinks, absolutely taken aback by this man, by his demeanor, even by the stride. It's the one thing that gives him away as one of their siblings, otherwise, he's, ah.

Mudah unconsciously inches closer to Hugh, opens his mouth and closes it. His brow twitches, and he asks rather feebly and stupidly: "Boy?" Because sure, he doesn't look his age, but. That is not what he asked. "I'm-- Mudah. Mudah Nassar."

The woman must be his wife, and there's something very calming about her. Probably the fact that she seems to have some sort of power over Jack. So it's just them then. His mouth is dry and his hands start sweating. _Pretty?_

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh's arm tightens around Mudah's shoulders, and Jack's suddenly hyper-focused on that. "Right, right, you're the boyfriend...Hey Antfarm, you got any good whiskey instead of that usual watered-down shit you try and peddle us?" And then he's gone, headed to the kitchen, and Tony gives Hugh a look before he follows him, probably to make sure he doesn't break anything.

Hugh, apparently, breathes for the first time since Jack walked in. He loosens his arm from Mudah's shoulders so that he can lean in and kiss Jack's wife lightly on the cheek. "Good to see you, Amelia."

"Likewise. You look well. _Very_ happy. Do we have you to thank for this?" She's smiling warmly at Mudah. "Please try not to take too much notice of Jack. He's...Well. He's Jack."

\- - - - - - - -

“I could go for some whiskey,” he mumbles to himself. He really doesn’t feel like drinking himself silly in front of his brothers though, or drinking before they start dinner.

He also realises he called him the boyfriend, and though he’s very much open about it, it’s still a little rattling, to hear it said without a care in the world. _Very_ nice though.

Anyways. He smiles at Amelia, and shrugs, because his hands are still a little shaky but he’s not going to be rude to the woman. With pride poorly concealed as modesty, he lifts one shoulder. “Maybe just a little responsible for that. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He turns towards the kitchen, where he sees Jack and Tony serving drinks- rather, it’s probably just Jack. “Everyone keeps saying that–“ _I understand now_ , he wants to say, but that’s not his place, perhaps not yet, “I’m j-just happy to be here, y’know? Should I help? With anything? I feel a little useless just standing around.”

\- - - - - - - -

“That’s because it’s true, darling. Heaven knows we all love Debbie and the children, truly. But for years our dear Hugh has been pretending to be something that he quite clearly isn’t, and it’s delightful to see him so very happy indeed.”

If Hugh was that sort of man, he’d be blushing right about now, but the warm smile that he’s wearing says enough. “C’mon Amelia, you know you’ll set Mark off.”

“No, I’m _fine_ ,” he insists. “It’s just all very touching.”

“Yes, well, all that aside.” Amelia looks over at Mark with barely hidden mirth, and he waves her away. “You’re more than welcome to try and offer your help, but our lovely Karen is somewhat of a control freak in the kitchen, so I daresay she’ll shoo you out with haste.”

Hugh reaches for Mudah’s hand, tangling their fingers together, because he knows it _must_ be overwhelming for him.

\- - - - - - - -

Everything is happening so much and so quickly, it’s like being in a whirlpool, one he can’t quite recover from just yet, because this isn’t over. But everyone is being so nice, and he’d feel terrible if they mistook his awkward standing for rudeness. Suddenly as if he has been reading his mind, Hugh holds his hand.

His heart beats really fast, he’s feeling nervous and a little bold, so he leans up – _why_ must they all be so tall– and kisses his cheek. Mudah is “the boyfriend”. He can do that. He can do that anytime he wants to, with these people who are so welcoming and nice to him. Is this how Hugh felt at his mother’s? He definitely likes this.

Though he does wonder about Jack.

“Well... that’s fine, then. Frankly, my cooking isn’t the best. I wouldn’t want to ruin anything.” He looks at Mark, and grins. “We _are_ cute, aren’t we?”

\- - - - - - - -

“You have no business being as cute as you are,” Mark tells them, before shaking his head and leaving the room to go and get a drink.

Amelia watches him go, eyes narrowed slightly in thought. “I wonder about him, I really do.” She seems to say it to herself, and then she seems to remember that Mudah is here, and that she should probably clarify just what she means. “Between the three of us-“

“Amelia, please.” Hugh interjects. “Not tonight?”

“Don’t speak for him,” she gestures to Mudah at this point. “If he wants to know the gossip, I’ll surely be happy to provide.”

\- - - - - - - -

Amelia watches and so does he, for that matter, both having a similar expression to their face. Lucky no one’s seeing them, but Hugh.

Mudah plays with his fingers, then lightly tugs at them, as if to draw his attention which he already has, always will. “I wanna know,” he drawls, which makes him sound way more innocent than he is, but it’s what he aims for, and only Hugh can tell what he’s trying to do anyways. He can’t be the only one who sees it, and he has spent a total of ten minutes with him, give or take.

Plus, he really wants to hear about the Bennetts from another Bennett who is not a sibling.

Unless he’s overstepping and this is a test and Amelia will hate him forever and– _no_ , that’s ridiculous. Something about her makes him feel... secure. “Let her speak.”

\- - - - - - - -

“Yes, Hugh. Let her speak. This isn’t 1950 anymore, women are allowed to have an opinion. We can even vote too, did you know?” She’s absolutely laying it on thick, but it’s all good-natured, and they both know that.

Hugh shakes his head, amused, before planting one final kiss on Mudah’s cheek before carefully letting go of his hand. “I’ll leave you two to gossip while I get us both a drink.” Out of all of them, he trusts Amelia not to lead him astray.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him. Mine’s a gin fizz, darling.” She removes a slim, silver cigarette case from her pocket and offers it to him. It has a light engraving on it, a date, just along the top edge.

\- - - - - - - -

“I’ll have whatever,” he calls after him, and turns to Amelia, who is very kindly offering him a cigarette. He happily takes one, and as the gentleman he is, takes out his lighter. He lights hers’ first.

“So, uh,” _where to begin_ , there is so much he wants to know. Not that Hugh has kept him completely in the dark, but this is a good opportunity. He holds his breath, then lets the smoke trickle out from his nostrils. Maybe he’ll start with the obvious.

“Mark. He’s like us, isn’t he?” And he presses the cigarette to his lips again; it’s really good, tastes fancier than the ones he usually buys.

\- - - - - - - -

She lets him light her cigarette for her, though she doesn’t have it in one of those fancy holders like Debbie had. She’s less concerned with ruining he lipstick, mainly due to the fact that she doesn’t wear it all the time. With a quiet click, she snaps shut the case and slides it easily back into her pocket.

He’s very observant, she thinks, to pick up on what she’d been trying to say without her even having to say it. But then, anyone with eyes could see it. It’s not exactly a subtlety, and she doesn’t even think Mark is trying to hide it anymore. Maybe he thinks that someone will eventually just say something, and he’ll be absolved of making the first move.

“He hasn’t said so explicitly, but yes. I certainly think he might be.” She sighs softly, and glances towards the kitchen, where all four of the brothers now are. “I’m hoping that you being here but coax him out just a little, and let him know that it’s fine to do so.”

\- - - - - - - -

It’s mostly that he’s spent a good half of his life around people like himself. He knows what the girls are like, what the men are like, above all, and then there’s those that don’t really feel like fitting with either, and they’re a little harder for him to understand but he tries. So she doesn’t need to say it, he just _knows_. He doesn’t know if Mark knows, though.

“M-me?” Though he can understand her reasoning. And though he doesn’t quite think it’s his place to do this, if he can help, well. “Maybe.” Maybe he needs to flaunt it more obviously, but he doesn’t think he can be any more queer. He’s already kissing Hugh and holding hands and looking at him like that.

“Okay, what about... rest of the family. Tell me about your kids. And everyone else’s– Tony’s a grandfather already, I see.”

\- - - - - - - -

“Yes, you. The two of you are so open with each other. I’m not exaggerating when I say that I’ve never seen Hugh be so openly loved-up, and I’ve known him for twenty years. I’m not saying that he didn’t love Debbie, but he was always so...I don’t know. Closed off, I suppose? He was always a little more reserved, as though he didn’t want us to see him being like that with her.”

She shakes her head a little now, not wanting to go too far down that line of conversation. “But that’s not important. Look to the future, not in the past, as my father always used to say.”

He asks her about the rest of the family, and she’s more than happy to oblige him. “Well, Jack and I have four children together. Three girls, and a boy. And then Anthony and Karen have two girls and three boys, and...” She pauses for a second, as she thinks it over in her head. “Four grandchildren. I’m assuming you met the two who tried to sneak out before we got here? Unfortunately, they didn’t quite make it out before they got spotted by Jack.”

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah can’t help but smile, that goofy little grin he has on his face whenever anyone talks about children (but especially about Kathryn and Michael). It’s a big family. He isn’t sure if it’s as big as his own; though his siblings don’t have children, his cousins have that covered already. _Too_ many children, he dares say.

“I did, I did see them–“ and he can’t help laughing quietly, albeit a little nervous. Smoke leaves his lips when he talks. “Hugh told me something about firecrackers... was that true?” Not that he would ever doubt Hugh, but. It’s _something_ alright.

\- - - - - - - -

“It’s all true.” Here’s the man himself, a whiskey sour in one hand, and he throws an arm lazily around Amelia’s shoulders, before leaning in to give a quick nip of her earlobe with his teeth. She laughs, and gives him a light shove that’s incredibly half-hearted.

“Did he tell you that I got his car too eventually? We used to do Christmas at our parents’ place out in Saratoga Springs, so we’d all drive in from Manhattan. And Hugh got the amtrak, like a pus-“

“Watch it.”

“...Like a coward. Anyway. I turned up at his work and covered all the door handles in water so they’d freeze over and he couldn’t get in. You don’t escape that easily.”

\- - - - - - - -

The devil is white and he’s standing right in front of him.

Mudah’s eyes widen slightly, though he covers it up by taking a long drag from his cigarette. _Told you so_ chants in his head are more annoying than they have a right to be. Still, it’s... terribly amusing. In the sense that he feels he probably shouldn’t laugh at it, but if he doesn’t he fears he might come off as an absolute party-pooper.

He does neither, and instead tilts his head and thinks. “Don’t think he told me, no.” _Where_ is his drink, he needs it. “You remind me of my brother,” except less. Intense. “He’s really... fun.”

\- - - - - - - -

"You don't remind me of any of my brothers. Mainly because we're all white."

Amelia tuts and pinches the skin just underneath his bicep, causing him to shrink back from her a little and rub at the spot with a quiet hiss of pain. She fixes him with a look, one that says she knows that he's trying to be trouble and she doesn't appreciate it right now. " _Behave_."

"He doesn't know how," that's Hugh's voice, and he hands over a gin fizz to Amelia, before holding out a drink for Mudah to take.

"I was just telling your boytoy here about that time you all got froze outta your office."

"You mean the time I got fired because of it?"

"Yeah, that time." He has an absolutely shit-eating grin, and he's not even sorry about it. "Hey, look at it this way. If you hadn't been fired, you wouldn't have got the job at Phillips & Powell, and you two wouldn't have met. So you're welcome. I got you two together. Matchmaker Jack saves the day."

\- - - - - - - -

“You got fired because of that?” Mudah grabs his beer and drinks plenty in one single, calculated gulp. Is this only the beginning of the nicknames and the nightmarish anecdotes? Then he definitely needs it. He appreciates Amelia, but she can only do so much. He’s not his mother.

He _doesn’t_ want to agree with that, but... maybe in some sort of cosmic level, he’s right. Like those people from the art gatherings say. A bunch of nonsense about the universe, and all that -nonsense he can’t understand while sober. Still, Mudah has a pensive look upon his face all of a sudden, which will only serve to encourage Jack, most likely.

Wait. _Boytoy?_ He looks between Amelia and Jack, and laughs. “How old do you think I am?”

\- - - - - - - -

"I did get fired because of that."

And even though Hugh is fixing Jack with a hard stare, Jack laughs directly at him. He apparently doesn't give a shit that Hugh got fired for it, because it doesn't matter now anyway. He's got a new job, with a higher position, and he's earning more money, so it doesn't really matter what happened to get him there.

Mudah asks how old they think he is, and Jack decides that he's in no way going to answer this correctly, whether he figures out the right answer or not. "Well, you're at least 18...He _is_ at least 18, right?" He directs at Hugh, who knocks back the rest of his whiskey sour because Jack is _testing_ him tonight.

What a surprise.

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn’t sputter because he’s already swallowed his beer, but he doesn’t look like he enjoyed drinking that. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling his quickening pulse, and then he remembers he can probably finish his cigarette and hope the nicotine knocks him out, or something.

He supposes it’s kind of... flattering. Hugh was troubled by his age too, at first, but he had a little more tact when he asked, and the rest was history. Besides– the implication that Hugh would pursue something with someone younger than eighteen, joke or no joke, is enough to make Mudah speechless. For a second.

“I’m forty one,” he says, his voice slightly high-pitched, so he clears his throat and takes a drag. “But, uh... thanks,” he drawls. The evening is _just_ beginning. Maybe it is for the best if they start drinking right now.

\- - - - - - - -

"You're _not_ forty one." That's Amelia, not Jack, and she's looking at Mudah with an incredulous expression on her features. "Please, you _have_ to tell me your skincare routine, darling."

Hugh moves, his arm easing around Mudah's waist and pulling him close, and he's essentially putting himself between Mudah and Jack. Mainly because he can see how uncomfortable Mudah is getting, and he doesn't like it. If he has to tell Jack to knock it off, then he will. Jack's usually harmless, but it's different this time, because Mudah gets flustered easily and Jack's not exactly easy to deal with even when you grew up with him.

Amelia, apparently sensing the slight tension from Hugh, hooks her arm through Jack's. "Come, we must go see the wallpaper Karen's just had put it upstairs. I'm thinking of getting something similar for the sitting room." And she half-drags him out, as he complains about not wanting to see wallpaper.

"Are you okay?" Hugh asks, as soon as they're out of earshot.

\- - - - - - - -

He would’ve loved to tell Amelia that it sort of runs in the family so he can’t really give her a detailed list of skin products, though he _has_ tried on some that have made him feel smooth and clean. But then Hugh pulls him closer, and Amelia pulls Jack away.

He offers an apologetic smile to her, mostly, though he guesses Jack saw it too. When they walk up the stairs, Mudah takes a drag of his cigarette, groans, and lets out the quietest “ _fuuuck_ ” in modern history. Perhaps in all of history.

He’s fucked up, hasn’t he? He turns and presses his forehead to Hugh’s chest, his face burning at a million degrees. Dragging him out and leaving him on his own in the suburb streets would’ve been a more merciful fate, he thinks. “Sorry,” he breathes, “I’m such an a–“ right, there’s people around and he doesn’t want to curse too much, Hugh wouldn’t like that. “Butt.”

Right. “Ya think he hates me now? I’d hate me.” He does hate himself, but that’s absolutely normal by now. “I’m okay! Promise.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh just kind of...Looks at him for a second, before he cottons on that Mudah thinks he's done something wrong here. That he's somewhat unaware that Jack was being an asshole just for the sake of being an asshole. Because, as per usual, that's exactly what he _was_ doing, because that's all that he ever does. "Mudah, baby, everything's fine. Jack doesn't hate you. If anything, you should be the one hating him."

He glances out of the room, in the direction they want in. "Goddamn bastard, we need to get him tested or something. He's not right. And he can't keep doing things like that." But he's not going to let Jack get to him, not tonight. And the urge to say something to him, to get him to shut the fuck up for just one night so that he can properly introduce his love to his brothers and sisters, is growing stronger with each passing moment.

He takes a slight step back, so that he can place his hands on either side of Mudah's neck, leaning forward enough so that he can rest his forehead against his, eyes sliding shut, and he just... _Breathes_. "Please don't let him get to you. I won't let him to do that to you."

\- - - - - - - -

No, he doesn’t think he _hates_ him. He’s a little wary of him, and it’s just how he is, but he doesn’t hate him. The mention of tests does make him laugh a little, then he bites his bottom lip and shakes his head.

The beer and cigarette still remain in his hands. Those in the kitchen are talking about throwing in something in Allah knows what dish, it’s not like Mudah is paying a lot of attention to the little commotion in there. He closes his eyes, and breathes, too.

There’s that. He needs to be a little stronger, otherwise he’s going to end up fucking this dinner up, and he can’t let one person make him forget about the rest of them. Tony, Mark, their wives, _Hugh_ , always Hugh. He can do this. He just... needed a little break. Very little.

“Okay,” he says, opens his eyes just enough to look down at his stomach and his shoes. “I’ll be fine, I promise. I want to be here. And I want you to be fine too.” A pause. “Besides, whatever they’re cooking... it smells good.”

\- - - - - - - -

"I'll be fine as soon as we're home, and I have you all to myself again." He kisses him then, softly, tenderly, because he just wants him to know that no matter what happens tonight, Hugh is there for him.

Tony pokes his head through the door, clearing his throat to get their attention, and Hugh breaks the kiss to look at him. "As soon as you two lovebirds are ready, we'll be taking our seats." And then he's back out and into the kitchen again.

"Okay, so there's a system." Get back to normal, pretend like Jack hasn't rattled him, that's how to get through the night. "Tony and Karen sit at opposite ends on the table. And then it's Jack and Amelia on that side, then Mark, me, and you, on that side. So you'll be between me and Karen and opposite Amelia." And on the complete opposite end of the table from Jack, which is just how he wants it.

\- - - - - - - -

It sounds– complicated, if you ask him. A war strategy instead of a family dinner, though it’s not far-fetched, so he nods in agreement and sees it in his mind’s eye. Tony and Karen are the hosts, so of course they belong there. And Hugh is trying to keep him away from Jack.

They’ll be in the same room, under the same roof, but if Hugh could do it for years, he can do it for a couple of hours.

He leans away, only to chug his beer. When he’s done he kisses him again, and gently presses the beer to Hugh’s hand. “Sounds good to me. As long as you get me another one of these, please.” (Maybe he’s being a bit of a whiny bastard, but. He can afford that right now).

“I’m ready though,” he nods again. “R-ready and hungry. That’s all I need, right?”

\- - - - - - - -

"That's all you need." He takes the empty beer bottles and leaves to get him another one, as Mark now enters the dining room. He settles a hand briefly on Mudah's arm with a warm smile, before he takes his seat.

Hugh's back in no time, not wanting to run the risk of leaving Mudah alone with Jack, in case they get back in the room first, and he hands Mudah a cold beer, before moving to pull his chair out for him.

Jack and Amelia are next, and he looks thoroughly chastised as he sits down, and Amelia makes sure to kiss his cheek softly before she too takes a seat, so that he doesn't sulk too much.

\- - - - - - - -

The dinner goes... surprisingly calm. And fun. And by the time Karen brings out dessert he’s tipsy –maybe that’s not the right word, but he doesn’t know how he can describe this. He’s tipsy, and he’s laughing at something Mark said (he’s definitely _not_ straight).

Beneath the table he moves his leg and bumps it against Hugh’s. Their feet are together like this. He gives no indication of what he’s doing; to everyone else, he’s merely picking up a spoonful of sticky sweetness and listening to the conversation. His chin rests in his hand, his jaw sticking out a little and making it seem sharper than it already is. He knows Hugh is looking at him, so he wants to flaunt a little. He knows he likes his jaw anyways.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh is watching him out of the corner of his eye, a soft smile on his lips as he tries not to laugh at what Mark had said. That jaw, sharp and angular, he knows because he's run his fingers over it so many times, in the dark of their bedroom, where no-one can see them, where's it just _them_.

But tonight has actually been nice. Jack has behaved himself, for once, and he's not sure what Amelia said to him upstairs, but he considers her a goddess right now. Her hands are clasped together in his, and she's leaning against him just a little, as he murmurs something in her ear that makes her giggle like a school girl.

"So, Mudah. Tell us. How did you two get together?" Karen asks. Her and Mark have switched chairs at this point, so that she can sit next to her husband, and her cheeks are a little rosy from the wine. It's just like that night with Mudah's family, except this time it won't be him telling the story, it'll be the other way around.

\- - - - - - - -

This was bound to be something they asked, he is only surprised it took them this long to ask. He licks his lips when he’s done with his spoonful, folds his hands on the table and leans closer. I’m doing so, he links his foot with Hugh’s ankle.

He has everyone’s attention, but he doesn’t focus on anyone in particular. Maybe Karen, mostly, because she did ask him, after all.

“It was a late night at the office. I didn’t know he was there, so he gave me quite a scare,“ he grins, still recalling the horrible noise his head made when it connected against the desk. “But then we just started brainstorming over coffee, came up with a little something for Polaroid, and... the rest is history.” Because he is drunk, but he is _not_ about to share the rest of the story.

“Sleep deprivation is a wonderful tool,” he says, then looks at Hugh. “I still have that picture, you know. We were trying out the instant development camera, so I took a picture of him. It’s good.”

\- - - - - - - -

"You do?" He had wondered, but it's nice to get the confirmation. He reaches for his hand, gives it a light squeeze, lets him know that he appreciates that he kept it. "It's only good because he's an incredible photographer."

Karen places a hand on her chest, giving Tony a look that makes him laugh softly, though not in an unkind way. "You'll have to forgive her, Mudah, she's a hopeless romantic. Even more so when she's had a couple of glasses of wine."

"Oh hush, Tony. It's cute! Their work brought them together and he _still_ has the photo he took from that night. Tony, it's so lovely. Isn't it?"

"Yes. It's lovely."

At this point, Jack moves to stand from the table. "Well, it's been a blast, ladies and gents, but we only have the sitter 'til 9. Mudah, it's been a pleasure. Don't be a stranger. Yada yada yada. Something about taking care of my brother, I dunno, the whiskey's talking for me right now. You ever get that? Whiskey mouth?"

Amelia stands now too, and settles a hand on his arm to shut him the fuck up.

\- - - - - - - -

Despite everything, Mudah smiles at Jack. Sure, he’s a bit of an asshole. But he knows when to quit being one, apparently, and not many can do that. Maybe he’s just being nice to him, but he appreciates that deeply. That, and the taking care of Hugh bit. Maybe he’s sentimental because of the whiskey, but it’s okay.

“Can’t say that I do, Jack. I’m more of a beer queer myself.” And the joke has come to him so naturally that it startles him a little, but it makes Mark laugh so much that he can’t help but be a little proud of that. Why is he only funny when he’s had a couple of drinks? Mudah doesn’t think it’s fair. He wants to be like this... _all_ the time.

Amelia’s touching her husband, so maybe he won’t say anything too bad now. To Tony and Karen, mostly, he says: “I’ll show you the picture sometime. And if any of you ever want some family pictures taken... guess I’m your man for that.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh hides a laugh behind his hand, ducking his head slightly, because that was way funnier than it had any right to be. Maybe it's the alcohol in his system, maybe it's because they've had a good night and he's still running on that good vibe, but whatever it is, it's hard not to laugh.

Jack just kind of watches him for a moment, eyes flicking between Hugh and Mudah, and then to Mark, and then back to the two of them again. "That's funny. You're funny. C'mon, babe. Someone's trying to upstage my humour and I can't let that happen. Ciao for now, everyone." And then he's breezing out of the room, and Amelia gives a light wave before she follows him out.

"You can't take _all_ of our photos. We want you in them too!" Which means that Karen considers him to be a part of the family now, and Hugh brings Mudah's hand to his lips so that he can place a light kiss on the back of it.

\- - - - - - - -

It’s hard to pay attention to whatever Jack is saying because Hugh is laughing. And Mudah is looking at the way his whole face reddens and the wrinkles around his lips, his eyes crinkling as if he just told the funniest joke in the world. It’s so endearing. He wants to lean over and kiss his cheek, and he reminds himself he _can_ , so he does just that.

Jack and Amelia leave, and his gaze roams over the table before he looks up at Karen. He’s part of them– if only he could take their last name too, and it pains him a little, but his joy prevails over those thoughts, for once. “Well, I still want to take as many as I can. I like photographing people.” He doesn’t outright say he likes taking pictures of _one_ person, mostly, but it’s pretty obvious that he does.

And he doesn’t quite cry but he rubs at his eyes, averts their gaze and laughs instead. It’s... so much. “Thank you, guys, I- I really appreciate. Everything.”

\- - - - - - - -

Karen smiles warmly at him as he kisses Hugh's cheek, and Mark looks like he's about to burst into tears, but somehow manages to hold it all together. "I'm glad we could make you feel welcome, hun. I just hope we don't have to wait a whole year to do it again."

Hugh hopes for that too, that they can all get together more often, maybe at _their_ house next; though he's not to keen on having Jack know where he lives, but Jack could absolutely find out if he wanted to, so they're not all that safe anyway, so he may as well just bite the bullet and invite him.

It'll just be nice to have more family in their home, if he's honest.


	15. Chapter 15

There's something to be said for getting out of work on time, for once. Maybe he'll make more of an effort to do it. Though, really, the only reason he's leaving on time is because it's Mudah's day off, and Hugh just wants to get home to him. The day has felt incredibly long, full of unnecessary stresses that he hadn't wanted, so really, he just needs to get home, maybe have a drink, and relax with his love.

He enters through the front door, letting it click shut behind him as he sets his briefcase down by the coat rack, and hangs up his hat and coat. "Mudah? Babe?" He calls out to him.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah hears the door open, and suddenly he wants to flee.

Dinner’s not ready. He doesn’t think he can finish it– or do anything at all. He’s not ready for the world to keep moving. He’s not ready to face Hugh and let him see how much of a pathetic mess he is.

But it’s what he is, anyways; sitting on the floor, above his head the phone that had rang an hour ago, Nima’s voice uncharacteristically quiet and _broken_. Any minute now she is going to call him back and tell him it was a prank; a terrible one, but one nonetheless.

He’s not spacing off. He’s just staring at the counter in front of him, unable to understand what happened– _how_ it happened. And then he hears the door and Hugh’s voice, and everything crashes down on him.

He curls his legs closer to him, doesn’t answer, though he wants nothing more but Hugh’s arms around him, and he feels it again. That sharp pain in his chest that’s left him breathless. When Hugh sees him, all he can say before a choked sob tears through his throat is: “My father is dead.”

\- - - - - - - -

The house is quiet. It's uncharacteristically quiet, and he doesn't like it.

Usually, when he comes home from work when Mudah's had a day off, there's noise from the kitchen where he's finishing up dinner. Or there's music coming from the record player, soft and only just loud enough to be heard as Mudah relaxes in the living room. But he can't hear anything, and he doesn't like it. It sets him on edge.

"Mudah?" He checks the living room first, but he's not there, and he eventually finds him in the kitchen. He doesn't get the chance to ask what's wrong before Mudah tells him, and his heart _breaks_ for him. "...I'm so sorry."

He moves to sit next to him on the floor, arms immediately wrapping around him and pulling him close, just to _hold_ him. He doesn't know what else to say, if only because he doesn't know how he would feel about this. He's not close to his father, he never really has been, nor does he know how close Mudah was to his. Obviously quite close though, judging by the way that he's taking it right now.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh shouldn’t see him like this, he really shouldn’t, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t feel like he can let go, finally, and break down and let himself be vulnerable. More so.

Had this happened years earlier it wouldn’t have hit him as hard. But Yousef’s efforts to get closer to him hadn’t gone ignored. Guilt ate at him, so Mudah allowed him back in his life. It hurts because it’s his father. But he thinks it hurts most because he’s been robbed of so many opportunities now. To fix things for real this time.

He wanted him to be there for him. He wanted him to meet Kathryn and Michael, and maybe–

Mudah lifts his hands, slowly, to Hugh’s back, and suddenly he starts crying, so he buries his face in his neck. Little sobs shake his whole body, as if he’s suddenly too weak and small to fight that back. “Sorry.”

\- - - - - - - -

"Don't apologise," he's quick to say, because Mudah has nothing to apologise for. Especially not when he's just showing his emotions, like he _should_ be in this situation. There's absolutely nothing for him to be sorry about, and it speaks wonders about how much toxic masculinity refuses to let men be emotional. He doesn't buy into that bullshit, even though he rarely cries himself, but that's just because he _isn't_ all that emotional in general. It takes a lot to shake him.

He tightens his arms around his love, and just _holds_ him as he goes through this, as he gets it all out, because it's the only way that he's going to begin to heal. "I'm here. I'm here, okay? Take as long as you need."

He'd met Mudah's father very briefly, during that night they'd all spent celebrating Salma's birthday, so it's not like he knew him all that well, but he feels the loss somewhere deep inside himself. And he feels it because Mudah feels it. His empathy towards Mudah is so incredibly high, by this point in their relationship, that he can't _help_ but feel it.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh is right, he shouldn’t apologise. He knows it, but the more his shoulders shake, pathetic hiccups wrecking through his whole body, he is shaken with guilt.

Not because of who he is, which was ultimately the reason why they drifted apart for many years. Maybe because of the way he handled it. How cold and unforgiving he’d been. And how initially he’d ignored his father’s pleas to return. Mudah had given him a hard time. And he fees guilty for putting Hugh through this, even when he knows he’s willing to be there for him.

He finds some comfort in that. He grasps at it as desperately as he clings to Hugh’s shirt, pulling back just a little so he doesn’t leave tear stains on his collar. Mudah sniffles and hides the way his face twists with pain, and then he looks up at him. “Can we just– go lie down. I- I need to go lie down.”

\- - - - - - - -

He doesn't care about the tear stains on his shirt, because it's not important. The shirt can get ruined, and he can replace it, quite easily. But if they don't go about this the right way, then Mudah could close off entirely, and that's hard to crawl back from. That's not what he wants. He doesn't want Mudah to close off from him.

He leans in to kiss his forehead softly, before pulling back just enough so that he can gently wipe the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs. "I think that's a good idea. Things will seem a lot less bleak in the morning." Or maybe they won't, he can't predict that, but it's easy to say it in an attempt to soothe Mudah just a little.

It's easier, for the both of them, for him to just lift Mudah into his arms. It's not like he weighs a lot, and Hugh has the muscle to comfortably carry him anyway. He gets to his feet, and then easily scoops his love into his arms, so that he's carrying him bridal style, before he makes his way upstairs.

\- - - - - - - -

It doesn't necessarily soothe him as much. But that's okay. It doesn't blind him to Hugh's sympathy, which is a sign he could be doing way worse. Pessimism informs him he will. But not right now.

To feel the floor suddenly slip away from his feet makes him slightly dig his nails into Hugh's shoulders. He’s safe, however -they both know as long as the other breathes they will always be safe- and so he allows him to carry him away.

He closes his eyes and breathes in whiskey and cigarettes. Yousef Nassar is dead. He leaves behind two sons and a daughter who he deeply loved, despite everything. His wife, the love of his life and his strength and courage. Born in the land of ancient gods, worn and eventually killed by the american dream. Of course it hurts him.

But right now, as he clings to the man he loves, he is grateful because he has _him_.

When he’s set down on their bed, he doesn’t let go of him. He needs him to stay with him. He rubs off some tears with the back of his hand, sniffles, then runs his fingers through Hugh’s hair. “You know what was the last thing he said to me? He said: You’re doing good. I think he was right.”

\- - - - - - - -

As he sets Mudah on the bed, Mudah doesn't _let go_ , so it's quite clear that he just needs to be held right now. And that's fine, that's absolutely fine, if he needs to be held right now, then that's what's going to happen.

Hugh kicks off his shoes - he struggles a little, because the laces on one shoe are tied a little _too_ tight and it's hard to slip it off, but he manages eventually - and then climbs onto the bed next to him. Arms slide around him fully, tighten a little, and pull him close. They're not spooning, because they're chest-to-chest, and Mudah is more than welcome to turn over if he wants to, but Hugh thinks this is what he needs right now.

His hand settles in the back of Mudah's hair, fingers lightly playing with the strands in what he hopes is a soothing motion. Really, what he hopes for the most is that Mudah can get some sleep, because he doesn't have to _worry_ if he's resting. He doesn't have to feel as strongly as he likely is.

"He's right, you are. You're doing good."

As last words go, they're not bad ones. They're not derogatory, they're not abusive, they're not something asinine that don't mean anything to him. ' _You're doing good_.' He can't help but think that if his father died right now, his last words to him would have been 'I didn't raise no faggot', which is unsurprising, and he doesn't think it would affect him as much as it is Mudah, because they were never really close, and he's not sure if they ever will be.

"Whatever you need, I'm here," he tells him, because he just wants him to know that.

\- - - - - - - -

Even if he hadn't been comfortable, there was no way he would've moved away. Hugh is what he needs right now, he thinks. Just to listen to him breathe; life, in the rise and fall of his chest, when it appears so feeble.

And now that they're both in bed, he feels so fucking _tired_.

Mudah closes his eyes -he believes those words, even if he doesn't feel good just now. He closes his eyes, Hugh's fingers at the back of his head already lulling him into a sleepy haze. There's a lot he needs to do... but not now. He feels another tear slip down his cheek, but the debilitating pain isn't the cause of it.

"I know," he says, not dismissively, but acknowledging. He's not alone anymore, and neither is he, for that matter. "Right now... I just need you here."

\- - - - - - - -

And here he'll be, no matter how long it takes for him to get through this, even if he never quite does. He's committed to this now, in a way that he doesn't quite think he was before, but apparently this was the final push he needed into the deep end. There's no going back now, not for him, and honestly, there's no-one else in his future but Mudah. It should be scary, but it's not. In fact, it's pretty enlightening.

His own eyes slide shut, but he doesn't sleep right now, just rests as he waits for Mudah to drift off.


	16. Chapter 16

His pen is dropped unceremoniously onto his desk, and right now he is _done_ for a little while. He needs to just take some time and relax, because he's pretty much all tapped out creatively, and he's not going to get any further if he keeps pushing himself. So he leans back in his chair a little, bringing a hand up to rub at his eyes, which are starting to sting a little while how long he's been staring at the same piece of paper, hoping for an idea to hit him.

His intercom buzzes, and his receptionist's voice floats through, alerting him that he has a visitor outside the door. He's pretty sure he knows who it is already, but he gets a confirmation from her all the same. " _Mr. Bennett, Mr. Nassar is here to see you_."

He leans forwards to press the button on his intercom. "Send him in, Janine."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah opens the door, smiling at Janine before he closes it behind him. He has a very specific idea in mind. One born out of a day's stress, given that the guy they recently hired in his department was, for a better lack of words, a fucking idiot. He gives him a week - _prays_ it is no more than a week. He can't work with someone like that.

The smile turns coy when he sees Hugh.

"You look tired," he speaks in his slow, lazy voice, a little quieter though; no one can hear them through the walls, but he takes this with precaution, anyways. And he _is_ a little worried, but he's seen worse. He doesn't sit on the chair in front of his desk. He rounds it and leans down to press a gentle kiss on his forehead.

"You busy?"

\- - - - - - - -

His eyes close for just a moment as Mudah's lips connect with his forehead, and when he opens them again to look up at him, he can't help but smile, softly.

It's nice to see him, actually. They haven't seen each other since they both left the house this morning, what with Mudah being busy with something down in the art department, and Hugh having been shut up in his office for the majority of the day.

He hasn't even ventured out for coffee, instead leaving to to Janine to fetch him one when he starts to get desperate. He doesn't want to leave, and have an idea hit him with nowhere or nothing to write it down, because by the time that he gets back to the office, it could be gone, and then he'd end up going home frustrated, only to have to start the process all over again the next day.

"Always. But never too busy for you."

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah is... he starts doubting this, but _no_ , he can’t back out now. Some of Hugh’s confidence has started to rub off on him; sometimes he catches himself snapping at Adler, taking matters into his own hands, striding about as if he owns the place. It was alarming at first. Now he _kind_ of likes it.

This self-assurance is what he needs when he leans down and kisses him again. Slowly, and sweetly, because they’ve both had a rough day so far, and anything rougher would be too stressful for him.

His hands rest on his chest, then slide down until he tugs at his belt, undos it with ease because he’s done this so many times before. Still, he pulls back to look at Hugh –he asks for permission without actually saying anything, but: “You look tense. You should relax, habibi.”

\- - - - - - - -

He kisses him eagerly, and he already finds himself relaxing a little as he lets his worries seep out of his body. It should be worrying, how easily Mudah can soothe him like this, but it isn't.

It _really_ isn't.

And then Mudah's hand finds his belt, and is undoing it before Hugh can quite process what he's doing. He catches hold of his wrist, to stop him just for now, and as Mudah pulls back to look at him, Hugh meets his gaze, searching his eyes for a brief moment.

He shouldn't encourage this, because this is dangerous. It's all well and good when it's just the two of them in the office, when everyone else has gone home and there's no chance that anyone is going to walk in and catch them. But at the same time, he _does_ need to relax, and this would...Yeah, this would really help.

"...Lock the door," he says quietly.

\- - - - - - - -

Shit. Right.

Mudah moves away and tries not to run towards the door. He doesn’t want to look desperate, and he doesn’t want people to hear his footsteps. The lock clicks into place, and he takes a deep breath before he lets go of the doorknob.

It’s dangerous. He knows this.

Yet Mudah returns to his side, tugs his belt and slowly pushes his legs apart. His hands are surprisingly steady. Maybe it’s his resolve. Maybe it’s that he hasn’t stopped thinking about this since the early morning.

He gets down on his knees.

He can’t help licking his lips– this is something he enjoys, making Hugh feel _better_. It’s all he can do now. His secretary brings him coffee. He brings him his mouth. Mudah’s eyes flicker up, and he tentatively presses his hand against him before scooting a little closer.

“Tell me if this is okay.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh's hand settles on the side of his head, because he doesn't want to mess up his hair. He might forget to fix it later, and then the jig is up. And it's not that he cares about himself in this scenario, he just doesn't want Mudah to lose his job. It wouldn't be fair on him, especially when Hugh is just as much to blame here.

Is this okay? It's more than okay.

He spreads his legs a little further, as far as he comfortably can, to give Mudah a little more room, as he looks down at him with barely concealed lust in his eyes. He may be tired, and he may still be a little stressed, but this is _good_. This is Mudah trying to take care of him, and he appreciates that.

He _loves_ him for that.

"It's okay," he gives him the verbal confirmation.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah places his hands over Hugh’s thighs –its tense muscle under his touch, and he _loves_ it; sometimes it’s difficult to remember that beneath the suit is a body so strong it makes Mudah’s hands shake. That’s the thing. It’s hard to veer from their personal lives, when they’re at work. Here, as he massages his legs, and then slips his hand into his underwear, he thinks he’s found a bit of a balance. It can keel over any minute.

His mouth is dry, though he just wetted his lips moments before. Maybe he didn’t need permission. All he had to do was look up at Hugh and see undeniable lust in those blue eyes of his’.

Still, he smiles a little, because he likes when he looks at him like that. Like there is no one else in the world for him –Mudah knows that is true for him, and usually makes him feel sappy and warm. Right now, he’s warm alright. He’s working deft fingers on his cock, tilts his head to meet his hand, then to shift closer. And he wraps his lips around him, careful of the way his teeth graze, holding him steady with his hand.

\- - - - - - - -

His breathing quickens as Mudah's hand enters his underwear, and he knows he has to control himself because he won't last long otherwise. And he wants to last for this, he doesn't want to cum like a teenage boy at the first hint of a warm mouth on his cock.

He watches, eyes transfixed, as Mudah's mouth closes around him, and his breath catches in his throat at the sight. He doesn't think he's ever seen anything more stunning, although maybe that's because all of his brain has rushed down to his cock and he can't even think straight right now.

Ha, think straight.

He almost laughs at that, but he manages to hold it in, and his hand moves to settle on the top of Mudah's hand, fingers threading through his curls, because he doesn't _care_ about messing it up right now. He just needs to touch as much of him as he can, and this is the best he can reach right now.

\- - - - - - - -

This is a spectacle.

Mudah does this to satisfy him, of course. He gets off on that, as odd as it may sound, though to him it is the most normal and right thing in the world. He opens his mouth and makes a point as his tongue trails along to the tip of his cock, as if it's everything he could possibly need; fuck it, right now it _is_ all he needs.

But showing off the way he is right now? Looking up through his lashes as he swallows him whole and hollows his cheeks, just the way Hugh likes it? Maybe he's doing it for a bit of praise, too. But he doesn't acknowledge that just yet.

He's almost tempted to reach into his own pants, but decides against it. His grip on Hugh's thigh tightens a little, as he shifts closer, and closes his eyes as he breathes through his nose. Steady, the way he knows.

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this is mostly just for his benefit, and he's grateful. He doesn't know how he got so lucky, to find someone who is so ready and willing to do this for him, to know exactly what he likes and how he likes it, and implement it just to please him.

It's flattering, really, to know that he has that kind of effect on Mudah, that he would _want_ to please him so badly.

He hums out a gentle noise of approval, head falling back a little to rest against the high leather back of his chair, and his eyes slide shut for a second time as he focuses on the sensations that he's feeling right now.

God, this is _expert_ , and he's absolutely sure that Mudah knows it. He loves that, loves how fucking confident he is when he does something like this. It's so sexy, and it only serves to turn him on even more than he already is.

"That's so good," he breathes, voice low and heavy.

\- - - - - - - -

So he knows he's doing a good job, because Hugh's head falls back, and now Mudah looks down at this hands, at his cock, which he licks again; a treat he's earned after a rough day at the office.

His voice sends shivers down his spine, makes the hairs on his arms stand. He's concentrated anyways, bobbing his head slowly, though lifting it slightly so Hugh can keep running his hand on his hair. Maybe he shouldn't, since he doesn't want to leave his office looking disheveled. But it's a little too late for that.

He's about to take him wholly in his mouth, taking in a deep breath. And then the intercom buzzes.

\- - - - - - - -

" _Mr. Bennett, you have a phone call. Should I put it through_?"

Shit.

Oh shit.

He'd briefly forgotten that they were at work, and that his secretary is _just outside his door_. "Hey...Hey, stop," he pants harshly, trying to catch his breath from the shock he'd just goddamn gotten. His fingers tighten in Mudah's hair for just a moment, before they relax and he reaches forwards to press the button on the intercom. "No, thank you. Hold all my calls."

\- - - - - - - -

He stops –though he’s not entirely convinced he _should_ , because if he leaves without finishing he’s only going to make it worse for Hugh and it’s exactly the opposite of what he wants for him.

There’s a moment of silence, one he takes advantage of by licking him again, and then the intercom buzzed again while he has half of Hugh’s cock in his mouth.

“ _... Sorry, Mr. Bennett, does that include the Clearasil calls?_ ”

Mudah tips his head, and squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t gag. He’s past that, and too experienced to know his own limits, but it’s still quite the feeling against his throat. Absolutely not. No one could ever make him stop now.

\- - - - - - - -

He's still got his finger on the intercom button, so she hears when he says ' _Jesus Christ_ ' sharply under his breath.

" _Mr. Bennett...?_ "

"It's fine! Just...Stubbed my toe." His fingers tighten in Mudah's hair again, because this is absolutely not fucking fair, and how is he expected to cope at all when this is going on? When Mudah's mouth is warm and wet around his cock, how is he supposed to focus at all? " _All_ my calls. Including Clearasil."

And he takes his finger off of the intercom, before dropping his hand to grip the arm of his chair tightly. "You're gonna...Fucking _ruin_ me," he huffs out, head falling back again. He swallows heavily, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and he isn't going to last much longer.

\- - - - - - - -

He wants to ruin him, he thinks. He wants him to let go and then he thinks of a hundred things he could do, but not now, right now Mudah engulfs Hugh's cock and hums in delight. Maybe he is a little smug. The door is locked, and no one's going to interrupt him anymore, he won't allow it.

He pulls back and his mouth makes a wet pop sound, he strokes him using the hand that isn't gripping his thigh, and _smiles_ before he takes him in his mouth again. He's ready for him. He can almost taste him, he's so close. He wishes he could encourage him.

But he prefers to keep his mouth busy, really.

\- - - - - - - -

That hum vibrates straight through him, emanating from the spot where Mudah's lips meet his cock, and it takes every goddamn inch of his self-control not to buck his hips up sharply, if only because he doesn't actually want to choke Mudah.

Not unless he's into that, and he asks nicely, anyway.

Mudah's mouth around his cock is encouragement enough, and he brings his arm up to his mouth, biting down hard on the sleeve of his shirt to stop himself from shouting as he comes. Because he comes _hard_ , and the muscles in his thighs tense underneath Mudah's hand, stomach muscles tightening as he stops breathing for at least a few seconds.

When he finally starts breathing again, his bones feel like jello, and it's all he can do to just sit there in his chair, breath coming out fast, as his fingers stroke idly through Mudah's hair.

...Shit, did he swallow? Because that's _hot_.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah feels him tense beneath him and suddenly Hugh comes in his mouth, and though he can never get used to the taste he craves it, keeps sucking even as he jolts and bites down on his sleeve and holds his breath.

He makes sure none of it spills from his lips, though he’s not as successful and there’s some of it on the corner of his mouth, but the rest he swallowed without hesitation. He looks up at him and sticks the tip of his tongue out, licks his come away, and grins.

“You feeling better, Mr. Bennett?”

The way he says his last name is unlike anyone else has ever said it in this office. He’s a little proud of that. And he crawls up, his knees a little sore, but it’s fine, because he tilts his head and lightly kisses him before he stands up and runs a hand over his hair.

“I know I am.”

\- - - - - - - -

He can taste himself on Mudah's lips, can taste the hint of cum that still ever slightly lingers there. He can't get up right now, his legs still feel like they're made of rubber, so he grabs the front of Mudah's shirt so that he can pull him down just enough to kiss him again, slowly and meaningfully this time.

"Much better," he tells him once the kiss is over.

They should probably get back to work, even though Hugh is tempted to pull him into his lap and just lazily make-out with him for the rest of the afternoon. God, that would be so nice, but it's incredibly unrealistic. He has a secretary outside that's waiting for Mudah to come out so that she can start putting through his phone calls again.

"Just for the record, if you ever get the urge to do that again, I'm cancelling all my appointments for the day." He feels like he's going to need to spend the rest of the day on his own just to recover from how hot that was.

\- - - - - - - -

”I’ll let you know a few hours in advance,” _next_ time, which thrills him. As much as he wants to stay around for a little longer however, he knows they can’t do that here. He leaves his office, though not without straightening his curls as best as he can. And if he sees Janine giving him a knowing look. Well, he doesn’t mention it, and neither does she.


	17. Chapter 17

He can’t stop thinking about it.

He’s gotten no work done today. He’s too nervous. He bounces his leg, and when Adler tells him to stop, he taps his pencil on his desk, bright eyes fixed on an empty spot on the wall.

Obviously. Gigs like this don’t come easily. To think that only a handful of his pictures attracted this level of attention is _beyond_ flattering. At the risk of sounding snobbish: his talent’s finally getting the recognition it deserves. And really, it is all sheer dumb luck. It’s once in a lifetime, and all that; he’d be an idiot to pass on it. Any other person with a hint of common sense would’ve called hours ago (chastising himself like this isn’t helping.)

Is he wrong for this?

“I gotta go talk to Mr. Bennett,” he says with an exasperated sigh.

He leaves behind three unfinished drafts, one scowling coworker who flips him off the moment he leaves the room, and a lukewarm mug of coffee, still full to the brim.

It’s a short walk to his office, all things considered. He looks at the desks, overflowing with papers; at the secretaries who buzz about the place like little working bees. That is what they are, aren’t they? He used to hate it at first. Now he’s walking towards Hugh’s office to ask him his opinion on something he’s clearly made up his mind on, and it is with mild astonishment that he realises he’s going to miss this.

He palms his front pocket for his lighter. He doesn’t have cigarettes, but maybe he’ll ask Hugh for one.

Janine announces him, but Mudah doesn’t wait for him to answer. He walks inside, closes the door behind him, and strides towards him. Perhaps, for the first time, he isn’t nervous. He just doesn’t know how to do this. And admittedly he wants to hear what Hugh has to say about this. Not his permission, rather, his opinion.

“Hey, habibi. I need to talk to you.”

\- - - - - - - -

It's been a slow day, thankfully. They've just closed a deal with Jaguar - _they've got a car, damnit_ \- which is big, and everyone's kind of on a high. So the door opens, and he expects to be someone from creative, and it _is_ , but Janine says it's Mudah, and that's...Interesting.

He has no idea that Mudah is coming to his office. They haven't scheduled an appointment, and the last time that he turned up unannounced like this, well-

But when he lifts his gaze to the open door, watching as Mudah closes it behind him, he doesn't seem like that's what he's here for right now, and Hugh is admittedly a little worried. It's not like him to come down here unless he absolutely needs to, because they're still being careful about their relationship. So for him to come in like this, to call him _habibi_ in the office,

"...Is everything okay?"

It's the first thing that he asks, it's the only thing that he wants to know right now, because it's the most important thing that he needs to know. As long as he knows that Mudah's okay, and that nothing is seriously wrong, then they can get to what's actually bothering him.

\- - - - - - - -

Mudah does not answer. Okay? It's marvelous. But it's complicated too.

He sits down on the chair facing Hugh, though any air of professional detachment anyone else might've had while sitting there is absent when he chooses to lean in close, his elbows resting on the desk. He opens his mouth, struggles to find words, so instead he licks his lip and squints at the buildings outside the window.

When he speaks, he bounces his leg again. "You remember that gallery we visited a month ago? Well, I left them some pictures, right," which had felt silly at the time, but now he is so grateful he had the balls to do it. "And they liked them, and somehow Bruce Davidson got his hands on them, so they've been sort of, uh, circulating. The gallery wants me, Hugh."

He smiles. A little. He's simply slightly dazed right now, because it feels too good to be true, but it's not a dream. Sharing it with Hugh makes it realer, somehow. "People wanna _meet_ me."

But. "But I can't do that. Here."

\- - - - - - - -

Oh.

Oh, of course. That makes perfect sense. Mudah is an incredible photographer, and Hugh isn't just saying that because he's in love with him. He really _is_ , there's something really special about the photographs that he takes, and it's about time that someone took notice. And if that person is Bruce Davidson? Well, that's just the icing on top of the cake really, isn't it? He _deserves_ to have something good fall into his lap.

Part of him wonders why Mudah didn't tell him sooner, didn't let him know when he found out himself, but that's selfish and unimportant and he pushes that thought out of his head.

"Baby, that's..." He reaches across the desk, takes hold of both of his hands, and gives them a light squeeze. "That's incredible news." His voice is soft, and he finds himself returning Mudah's smile so very easily. "Whatever you need, I'll support you. If it means leaving here, then we'll figure it out. I'll support you no matter what."

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh takes his hands. And his response is everything he could’ve wanted, needed, and more.

“I didn’t tell you because- I think part of me didn’t think I’d go anywhere.” It’s stupid, he realises. But now. Now, suddenly, he laughs, and he nods, and he thinks he’s going to cry but he doesn’t want to leave his office like that. Though considering he’s _quitting_ , it would be somewhat fitting to maintain appearances in the eyes of the rest of the agency.

He’s so supportive. Mindful, caring. As if he doesn’t know this already. As if he needs that reminder, but he really doesn’t. Mudah squeezes his hands. “I want you to be proud of me.”

He _will_ make him proud. “So. Ah. I love my job here, Mr. Bennett,” he says, amusement in his voice, if it wasn’t obvious by the glint in his voice, though he’s sad, he doesn’t want to leave _him_. “But I think it’s time I start working on this dream of mine.”

\- - - - - - - -

Hugh brings Mudah's hands closer, so that he can kiss the back of each one in turn, before he gives them both a light squeeze. "I am proud of you," he tells him, because he _is_.

It seems as though Mudah's decision has already been made. And not that Hugh would _want_ to try and change his mind, but even if he did, he doesn't think it would be possible. Even though Hugh is both his boss, and his lover, the decision is entirely up to him, and all Hugh can do in this moment - if he wants to be both a good boss and a good boyfriend - is to support him in whatever he's chosen to do, whether it be in this career or a different one.

"Honestly, I think this is long overdue. I'm not saying that you're not valued here, because you are, we both know that. But I want you to be _happy_ over anything else. And if this is going to make you happy, then you should go for it."

\- - - - - - - -

It’s a little odd to look back and realise he’d lost hope somewhere along the way. That he kept taking pictures, sure, but never thought he could dedicate himself to it entirely, and that he had gotten so comfortable in this work when all he needed to do was give himself a little push. He has. And Hugh’s there too.

“I’m going to miss this.” Maybe not the people – only a handful, especially the secretaries, _Janine_ , bless her heart. The world of advertising, whether he enjoyed his stay or not, is his home. It’s not like he’s never coming back. He can sneak in and pretend someone needs his help, because he _is_ a good asset. But everything’s going to be so different.

He steals a furtive glance at the door. Quickly, he leans over, pecks Hugh’s lips, and sits back. “I have to go pick up my things. I have to call them,” he nods slowly, “and. Do all that.” Funny. He always thought he’d get fired; never that _he_ would resign.

“Thank you,” he says anyway. Because if it weren’t for this job and this place, he would’ve never met the love of his life. His voice drops to a whisper, so gentle it is almost drowned when a phone buzzes on the adjoining office: “I love you.”

\- - - - - - - -

"I love you too," and he means it more than he's ever meant anything in his entire life.


End file.
